


The Orn they dropped the Bomb

by Nikkie2010



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of nuclear bomb, Autobot ensamble - Freeform, Eventual Jazz/Prowl - Freeform, Jazz/Prowl only towards end of last chapter, Nuclear Weapons, graphic depictions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:02:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25752541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nikkie2010/pseuds/Nikkie2010
Summary: It was a beautiful orn - no one could have imagined the horror that would envelope them and ruin in a few seconds everything they had ever known. War has no mercy, no favourites and your survival might sometimes be worse than death.*Aug 6, 2020 is the 75th anniversary of the nuclear bombing of Hiroshima - the first time a nuclear bomb had ever been used on a populated city mostly filled with civilians and children. Many people forget the horrors of the aftermath - for those who survived, they had to face not only the scars and cancers and loss of loved ones, but also the stigma associated with surviving the bomb. This four-part fic is in commemoration of the 75th anniversary and will focus on the direct aftermath of the bombing.
Relationships: Jazz/Prowl
Comments: 20
Kudos: 48





	1. A normal start to a normal orn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You are only given One life, So cherish this moment. Cherish this day, Be kind to others, Be kind to yourself” - Yasujiro Tanaka

Prowl tapped his code to lock his habsuite as he stepped out onto the pavement. A small smile played at the corner of his lips as he glanced up at the clear blue sky. The star’s rays warmed his plating as avions fluttered and whistled their morning songs.

“Good orn, Officer Prowl!”

Prowl sung his helm round. His neighbour and fellow officer had just stepped out as well, his youngling happily seated on his hip. No doubt he was on his way to drop the youngling at school before his shift was due.

“Good Orn, Officer Logique and Techno.” Prowl dipped his doorwings and flared them in greeting, the youngling mimicking his movements awkwardly. He smiled fully as he stepped towards the merging lane and smoothly transformed.

As always, he departed for his shift forty-five breems early.

As always, he stopped at the small café one block from the station to grab his regular morning energon and treat. Being situated across the street from the planet-renowned Helix Gardens and the Palace complex, it was a popular spot not only with locals, but also with the ever-dwindling number of tourists.

Prowl transformed and for a moment stared at the Palace complex. He shook his helm and stepped towards the Helix Café.

The bell above the door tinkled in welcome.

“Good orn, Officer Prowl!” Doppio greeted him with her usual smile as her blue optics sparkled. “Same as always?” But even as she said it, she laughed and turned towards the back of the counter. There, his cube and a small box with whatever treat she had deigned to create this orn was already waiting.

“As always.” Prowl dipped his helm and flared his doorwings in gratitude.

“You know, some orn you really need to try a different brew. Despite the war, we still have a large variety. Don’t know how long though, imports are getting tricky.”

His smile faltered ever so slightly.

The war.

It resided in the back of everyone’s processor, but it was more a bogeyman than a real threat. Because Praxus was neutral.

And she would remain neutral.

Doppio leaned over the counter, pointed chin in her hand as she ran her optics up and down Prowl’s polished frame. “I’ve added that to your bill for the end of the quartex, but I’ll give you discount if you take me on a date.” She winked as her doorwings flicked invitingly.

Prowl couldn’t hide the answering grin. He would, of course, be paying the full amount, and also taking her on a date, but this statement had become a little game between them, and a betting pool between Smokescreen, Barricade and the rest of the precinct who were unaware that they were already seeing each other, perhaps not yet dating as such, but definitely involved. He hated to admit it, but this was a bet he was going to lose. He leaned towards Doppio, doorwings canting forward. “Then I’ll have to make arrangements.”

Doppio bit her lower lip as her grin grew. She pushed away from the counter. “I’m looking forward to it. And I’m telling Smokey so that you don’t cancel on me!” She called before turning her attention to the next customer.

“Then I will lose the shanix required to take you on a date.” Prowl shook his helm, but the easy smile stayed on his lips. Doppio was a nice mech - pretty, friendly, and didn’t mind his introverted personality nor his odd tastes in energon. Despite what most mechs thought, Prowl chose to remain single because of the demands of his job. He’d seen enough relationships fall through the cracks because of the joors and risks involved.

It was perhaps the only reason why he and Doppio had not made anything official.

That and the betting pool. Prowl hated losing.

He exited the café and walked, as always, the remaining block to the precinct as he sipped his energon. He subspaced the energon gels for his usual mid-orn snack. He’d finish the special treat before he started his shift.

The Central Praxus Enforcers Station was located close to the centre of the city not only as a show of power, but also because in the olden orns, it served as a barracks for the palace guards. The building itself was built to mimic the domed palace where the lords of Praxus still resided and governed. The Dome was supported by large columns, while top floors had sturdy metal finishes, the ground floor was encased in sheets of hardened crystal and metal supports.

Praxians dipped their doorwings respectfully and cleared out of his path as he headed towards the steps leading up to the main entrance. He finished Doppio’s special treat just as he entered the grand hall and discarded the empty cube. To the left mechs were lined up, some making a ruckus as they were processed, while others merrily waited in annoyed silence.

“Good morning, Officer Prowl.” The receptionist bobbed his helm at Prowl and continued setting his desk in order for shift changeover, immune to the constant commotion and flow of mechs. “Captain Raptor is waiting or you in conference room B2.”

“Thank you, Trapper. Have a good orn.” Prowl updated his calendar to ‘busy’ and headed towards the elevator, spark thrumming in his case. A small frown tugs at his optic ridges as his face slid into a neutral façade. It was odd for the Captain to request a meeting like this. If it was an emergency he would have been alerted over their special ESU frequency. His ATS whirred to life as it started spouting possible threats, but Prowl dialled it down. There was no reason to use it just yet and its use would only drain his energon unnecessarily. He was keenly aware that the precinct had begun rationing the energon available to its officers, not enough to be of concern, but enough to pique interest.

It meant the war was intensifying to such a level that it was influencing trade across the planet. He had added that to his file of ‘possible future scenarios’. Pity no one bothered to hear them. Least of all the Palace. Perhaps if it had been some other mech than the illegitimate offspring of a secondary duke someone might have taken the time to listen and prepare.

He drew a deep vent as he reached conference room B2, the unease in his tank growing as he discovered only his captain in the room, brooding in front of the holographic display. Perhaps this was to discuss team tactics? As tactical commander of the Praxian Emergency Service Unit, he was often requested to assist with training schedules, however at least some of the team members were present. Prowl cleared his vocaliser. “Captain?”

“Ah, good morning, Prowl. How are you? Lock the door, please.” Captain Raptor smiled tightly as he beckoned Prowl in. A moment later the holographic display of Praxus and her borders blinked into existence.

Prowl sauntered round the table, his optics taking in the details until they flickered to his Captain. He raised his doorwings in a silent request for information.

Raptor blinked and drew a deep vent, doorwings settling behind him in a cant that belied that the old mech was worried. “As you know, Praxus has no militia of her own. She has only enforcers.”

Prowl cocked his helm to the side as he came to stop next to Raptor. “Affirmative, sir. Militia can be viewed as a possible threat and unnecessary in a neutral state.” Prowl curbed his curiosity as he waited. Whatever Raptor wanted to say, he would do so in his own time. The old mech never danced around the subject with Prowl.

“Hmmm.” Raptor pressed his lips together and drummed his fingers on the edge of the display table. After a moment he continued. “I’ve recalled Smokescreen and Barricade. I know it’s their leave, but I want our unit on permanent standby. I’m also mobilising our secondary units to be on standby. You will need to sync your tacnet with theirs.” He studied the holograph.

Prowl studied his captain through narrowed, calculating optics. Praxus rarely had any events that required the use of PESU, and thus there was only one primary unit stationed at the Enforcers head office. The secondary units, though well-trained, were usually kept as reserves only in the case one of the primary team members were injured or off-duty for more than an orn. To mobilise those units means something had happened to change the status quo. He shifted to face his captain fully. “Sir, if I may ask, what recent developments have occurred for us to raise our alert level?”

Raptor was silent for a few clicks. “Flyover by the Decepticons.”

Prowl flicked his doorwing. “Permission?” Flyovers were forbidden over Praxian airspace, however, as a Neutral state, any mech, whether Decepticon or Autobot, could request permission to enter. What was bothersome though, was as late there had been more and more flyovers by Decepticons without the necessary permissions. At first they had sounded the air raid alarms and armed the city defences, but as these flyovers continued with little interruptions – usually the offenders were a single seeker or a trine – they had only sounded precautionary warnings and had warned them to get out of neutral airspace unless they obtained the necessary permissions. The mechs had all turned and left once these warnings were issued. Praxus wasn’t concerned. After all, what could one mech do?

Raptor rolled his shoulders and popped his neck. His doorwings flicked forwards and back. He and Prowl were among those who warned against complacency, but it fell on deaf audios. Raptor vented slowly. “No permission, and when we tried to hail them, they ignored us, did a full turn over Praxus, and headed to the south-eastern border.” He highlighted the map to reflect their flightpath.

Prowl’s ATS whirred to life and this time Prowl allowed it. A myriad of possibilities flew through his processor, mapping different scenarios and outcomes. The problem was there were simply too many variables. He throttled down, his focusing returning to Raptor. “Sir, why are you telling me this and not the Chief?” He asked softly as he studied the holographic map with the highlighted flightpath.

Raptor wiped a hand over his face and down his neck, his doorwings drooping for just a split-click before he caught them. He straightened. “The Chief and Grand Lord believe the threat to be minimal and won’t raise the threat level of the city and the enforcers in general. Pity you don’t have a good relationship with your sire…” He scratched his chin before pointing to the south-eastern border again. “However, I am in charge of the PESU members, and thus have full control of their level of readiness. I want us to draw up a contingency plan. There has been one too many flyovers and it’s working on my neural net. They’re up to something.”

Prowl drew a deep vent and released it slowly. That would explain the odd summons – his superiors would no doubt view this as a possible act of aggravation if they raised their readiness and drew up a contingency plan. And as a state, they were dead-set on aggravating neither Autobots nor Decepticons. Yet that didn’t make either group less of a threat if resources were dwindling. As to his sire, the mech barely acknowledged him. There would be no help from that avenue. “What do you expect?”

“I’m honestly not sure, I just got this feeling that Megatron won’t let us in peace, not with the way the war is going. Even though Praxus censers the news, word has slipped through that resources are dwindling for both sides, and they are seeking alternatives. I’m also sure you’ve noticed our rations?” He shook his helm. “As the seekers exited our territory at the south-eastern borders, I’m thinking that he might have an army unit based there. We’ll be easy pickings if they do decide to attack.”

Prowl narrowed his optics as the ATS spit out possible steps to take to verify the data. “You have recalled Smokescreen and Barricade to Praxus, sir?”

Raptor gave a curt nod, his amber optics keen as he watched his tactical commander.

“Belay the order and let them divert to the south-eastern border. Barricade is skilled at scouting, and if needs be Smokescreen can provide cover from a distance. Let them determine if there are Decepticon movements across the border.”

Raptors optics blurs as he focuses internally. “Done.”

Prowl nodded and folded his arms across his chassis. “We will focus on readying Praxus and our units. Our automatic defence units are on standby and can be activated by a single word from either the Chief or the Grand Lord, but I do not want to bargain on the automated systems. I’m not as skilled a gambler as Smokescreen.”

Raptor huffed a chuckle. “I will talk to Chief so that we could maybe run a drill. Just to see that the electrics are still fine.”

“Good.” Prowl turned towards the holographic map and jacked into the console. The screen flickered until the city proper was shown. He highlighted the districts and where the residences and precincts were located of the secondary PESU units.

“I have sent out an order that our units carry full-kit in subspace as from now. I will also highlight escape routes out of the city. Should the Decepticons decide to attack, we will send the population towards the mountains in the north-west. If I had to make a choice, I would place my shanix on the Autobots.”

“You think they have the firepower to defeat the Decepticons?” Raptor asked as he traced the escape routes.

Prowl raised his chin as he ran through the probabilities of his ATS. “Negative. They have the motivation, and they have the Prime. The will to win can be of more importance than the ability to win.”

* * *

Bluestreak grinned as he gave his carrier a hug, eager to join his friends on the playground.

“Alright, sweatspark, I’m late I need to go.” His carrier absently kissed him on the helm. “If I’m not in time to pick you up, just take the transport. I’ll have dinner sorted. Now hurry along, I’m going to be late.” 

Bluestreak stepped back as he watched his carrier transform and merged back into the traffic.

“Love you, too.” Bluestreak gave a quick wave as he watched his carrier merge into traffic. Maybe they’ll have time to go to the Gardens on the orn-end. Maybe. If they didn’t have work to do. His doorwings drooped low, but then a familiar voice drifted over the playground. He spun round and sprinted away, tugging at his small pack as a smile blossomed over his rosy cheeks. “Hey Techno!”

“Heya Blue!” Techno gave his best friend a hug as he grabbed Bluestreak’s hand. Together they ran into the large classroom. Techno released him and hovered at the door, little white doorwings swinging happily as he watched Bluestreak head to their desk. “Come on, hurry up! Only a few more breems to play!”

“Okay, okay! It’s my turn to be ‘it’ so go outside and hide. I’ll count to fifty then come.” Bluestreak threw his pack underneath his desk as his small doorwings tracked Techno running away to tell the rest of the gang. Bluestreak smiled. Techno was his best friend, and he was always the first at school, nearly a joor early, because his carrier and sire were both in the Enforcers.

They had already decided that when they grow up, they’d bond and be enforcers too.

He raced to the window on the opposite wall to the courtyard. He always counted from this spot, because from here he could see the Helix Gardens, and the Palace, and the Praxi River. He grinned as he looked at it. Maybe he’d be a palace enforcer one day. Then he could see the Gardens all orn.

He really hoped his creators had time this orn-end.

Leaning against the windowsill, the star’s rays bright on his face, Bluestreak began counting.

One…two…three…

* * *

Prowl subspaced the last of his PESU gear and slammed the depository closed, watching as the lights blinked green then red. _Secured._

He traced the edge of the keypad, processor spinning. If the Decepticons were planning an attack on Praxus, the city defenses would only be able to hold them off for six joors. With the assistance of the enforcers and palace guards, that time might be extended to eight joors. If they managed to get a signal through to the Autobots, they should be able to arrive within two joors.

He did not know the Prime personally, but he had analysed his movements, his speeches, his approaches. The Prime was honourable and he was smart, but he was too careful. He would rather defend than attack. That more than anything else might be their downfall.

Prowl shook his helm. The Prime required a good offensive tactician, and soon. He headed up the steps that would take him to the back-end of the lobby. He would need to talk with Logique about changing shifts, seeing as the carrier was also a reserve unit for his PESU. The remainder of his units were all mobilised and ready should there be any sign of Decepticon manoeuvring. They had already checked in and confirmed they carried full gear. Barricade and Smokescreen were thirty breems out from the border, and should be able to provide him with an update in forty-five breems.

He reached the lobby and paused. There was an odd sound. He flared his doorwings as the high-pith sound of a lone seeker engine in distress registered. He growled and dashed towards his unit member. “Officer Logique, get ...”

He never got to finish his sentence as a blinding blue-white light flashed through the front doors and windows. He threw his arms up to shield his face from the sudden onslaught. The next moment he was thrown off his feet by a thundering, invisible wall and tossed into complete darkness.

* * *

“Good orn, Bluestreak!”

“Good orn, Teacher Axiom!” Bluestreak spun round and smiled brightly, his doorwings dipping in respect and greeting. He leaned back against the sturdy wall as he watched Teacher Axiom unpack his teaching pads and continued…“Forty-two...Forty-three….”

The room suddenly lit with a blinding white light, sucking all the colour from it. Bluestreak froze as Teacher Axiom’s optics widened and doorwings flared. All at once a deafening noise exploded from all around him and then searing hot heat engulfed them, followed by screams and pitch-darkness.

* * *

“I think my comms are down.” Smokescreen turned to Barricade, his ridges drawn low over his optics as he tapped his audial. A cloying coldness crept into his spark and he rubbed at his chassis. They were in their small two-seater surveillance shuttle, flying low and fast towards the south-eastern border to scout out possible Decepticon movement. Not the way he envisioned ending his holiday.

Primus he hoped this was a useless excursion. Then maybe they’d get some extra leave to make up for it…maybe. The cloying coldness turned to small pin-pricks of pain and he shifted in his seat. Urgency filled him and he fluffed his armour. “Can you hail Prowl? Or Captain?”

Barricade’s optics unfocused briefly and he shook his helm, lips pressing into a tight line. He throttled back on their speed. “Hail headquarters.” He grumbled as he adjusted a few more settings on the craft, then pointed at the external communicator. He pressed a hand to his chassis.

Smokescreen hesitated, his digits hovering just above the uplink. “If the Decepticons are listening into air traffic, they might catch this.”

“Do it, but keep it brief. Less than twenty-five clicks.” Barricade ordered as he pointed the nose of the craft lower. Flying at lower altitude would increase their lead time to their target, but at least it will keep them under radar.

Static filled the line and Smokescreen switched to every frequency he could think of. “No success.” Smokescreen swallowed as he bit his lower lip. A sharp pang in his spark had him hunching forward. He braced himself against the cockpit dashboard. “I’m feeling weird.” He admitted and gently brushed the tips of his digits over his spark.

Barricade kept his optics focused solely on the console, then flared his plating. “As do I.”

“Shall we abort the mission?” Smokescreen asked softly and looked at Barricade. It was a gamble. Everything could be fine at Praxus and they could simply be in a space outside the boundaries of communications. Then again, it was vital that they get a handle on the Decepticon’s movements. If the Cons were infringing on Praxus’s borders, they would need to know to make adequate preparations and _remind_ the Decepticons that they were a neutral state.

The thrum of the ship’s engines were the only sounds for breems, then Barricade increased the throttle speed and pointed the nose up. “Abort the mission.” He turned the nose of the shuttle to head back to Praxus. “Approximate ETA,” he checked the fuel and ran the calculations, “one joor. Keep hailing.”


	2. Waking up in the Pit

The world was enveloped in a high pitched singing.

Prowl coughed and slowly cracked his optics open. He stared into sparking darkness, dipping in and out of consciousness as the sweltering heat grew.

It was too hot. He needed to get out of here.

Moans carried through the air and Prowl raised his helm, gasping as thousands of red-hot needles bombarded his frame like tiny missiles. He sucked in his vents and grit his denta as processed energon rose in his throat. His vision blurred over with red warnings, each more urgent than the former. By reflex he tagged his ATS to sort through the most life-threatening.

He rested his helm back down and shuttered his optics. Primus he was so tired and his frame ached.

The heat grew. He needed to move. Help. Yes. He needed to help, but…

 _What happened?_ It was difficult to vent, to think. The cries and stifled moans of a mech in pain floated into his awareness and he dialled up the bandwidth of his HUD. He had to fight the darkness. Enforcer coding roaring to life. He needed to help. His doorwings scraped painfully against the floor as he flicked them up to scan. Pain, hot and heady, seared through him and he dialled back there sensitivity.

Fine. Gritting his denta against the pain, he pushed himself up to his knees. He braced himself against the…rubble? He blinked and shook his helm. He glanced up at the darkened room and ordered his biolights on.

Destruction met him.

Had headquarters been bombed?

Bracing himself against a ceiling slab that had landed bare millimetres from his helm, he pushed to his pedes. His legs trembled as he leaned against the slab. The moans were getting softer.

“I…” His vocaliser clicked and spit static. He reset it and sucked air into his vents. It hurt and his vents emitted a horrible, grinding sound. Errors popped into his HUD. Briefly he glanced at the list of injuries displayed in his HUD before cutting the feed. He didn’t need to see that. As long as he could move…help mechs…

Small pieces of glass, concrete and metal shifted around him, biting into him like the tiny teeth of a thousand scraplets as he crept over the strewn rubble. He glanced down at his blackened frame where energon glistened and wires sparked. With each jostle his doorwings sent rivulets of pain cascading through his frame as if someone had taken thousands of needles and were darting them in and out of his doorwings. He dialled sensory feedback down to its minimum, but still the pain rolled over him like the stormy waves of the Rust Sea.

 _Painchips._ He blinked. He needed to…wait…he had…his subspace. His kit. He swallowed and licked his swollen lips. He was thirsty, so thirsty. Carefully, he leaned against what might once have been a piece of furniture. He unsubspaced his medical kit and with trembling digits took out two painchips. He slid them into his ports and soothing coolness spread through his frame, dulling the pain enough to clear his processor.

 _Thirsty._ He grabbed a coolant cube and downed it, but it wasn’t enough. He needed more.

He canted his helm to the side and squinted into the darkness as a familiar voice drifted to his audios. “Logique?” It came out as little more than a scratchy whisper beneath a hiss of static, but Prowl didn’t have the strength to call out again.

“Please….help me….”

Prowl pushed off again in the direction of the cry. Logique was his enforcer. He had a duty, a responsibility towards him. That knowledge lodged within his dull spark and somehow cleared his processor. “I’m…Coming.” Bracing himself, he moved towards the sobbing mech. Flickers of orange-yellow light illuminated patches of what remained of the room. The dust and metal particles swirled menacingly in the soft illuminated beams. So close.

Nausea clawed at him and he swallowed the rising coolant he’d just drank. He kept his optics focused on Logique.

He finally reached the blackened, energon-covered frame. “I’m…here.” He vented harshly and stared at the unrecognisable charred face. His optics drifted down and over the metal burns covering the chassis and arms, trying to see if this was indeed his fellow officer or not, but there were no distinguishing marks. The mech’s field brushed faintly against his.

“Logique…” Prowl croaked as he reached out to touch him, but there was no place to touch that he wasn’t damaged, that wouldn’t cause more pain.

“My legs….please…” Logique spit static as sparks erupted from his chassis. “Need…to…Techno…can’t move…” He broke off into a fit of coughs, energon leaking from his audials, olfactory and mouth.

“Don’t…move.” Prowl dismissed the ATS’s conclusion that the mech was beyond saving. This was his enforcer. He dialed his ATS down. Turning, he brushed the wreckage away and froze.

There were no legs.

Prowl stared at the broken, jagged edges of the struts, energon and coolant leaking in steady streams from torn lines. He should clamp the energon lines. Stop the leaking. He should administer first aid until the medics could get here.

The medics.

Prowl blinked and looked up into the darkness. The sounds of fire crackling and mechs moaning filled his audios, but there were no sirens, no mechs running to assist, no comm lines beeping. He tried his comm. Nothing but static greeted him. He tried comming Logique, but once more nothing but static. His sluggish ATS supplied him with the most probable scenario.

A cold, icy grip squeezed his spark until it felt like it would extinguish.

 _No._ He pressed a fist to his mouth as painful vents sawed through his frame. _No._ Realization settled over him as oppressive as the stifling heat.

92% probability that they had been attacked.

They had been attacked. _They had been attacked._

“Please….”

He dropped his fist and clamped down hard on his emotions, throttling his ATS to full battle mode to drown out the emotions and needs of his frame. He needed to be in control. He needed to…to _fix_ this. Calm settled over him like a cold cloth as he turned back to Logique. With pain throbbing dully though his own frame, he quickly clamped the ripped lines, but even as he did so he felt the life ebb. Finally, he stopped and turned to Logique, gently taking the enforcers broken, burned hand. There was nothing else he could do.

Logique turned shattered optics to Prowl. “Please…my legs…Techno.”

Prowl ducked his helm, when his ATS directed him down another train of thought. Perhaps it was only the centre of Praxus that had been bombed. Perhaps Techno was safe at the youngling centre. “Logique,” He leaned down to be close to the Enforcer’s helm, “Can you… still…feel Techno?”

“Please…Techno…” Logique grit out as more energon bubbled and flowed from his mouth and dribbled down his neck.

“Can you…feel him?” Prowl pressed gently into the hand, hoping that the motion would ground Logique.

Logique’s optics flickered, their glow so dull that they appeared nearly transparent. “Please…f-find him….hurt….” His engine sputtered and his optics faded completely.

Prowl stared at the lifeless frame, then slowly released his grasp on the dead mech’s hand. He sat back and shuttered his optics.

Where was Chief? And the captain? What about the Grand Lord and his family?

He needed to find them. Prowl reached into his subspace and drank another cube of coolant. He stood, stooping as his doorwings hung limply behind him. Nausea grabbed him and before he could even try to clamp a hand to his mouth he purged, the coolant splattering on the ground next to him. With a shaking hand he wiped at his mouth. He was still thirsty, but the nausea threatened to overpower him again. He swallowed. He needed direction. He needed a plan.

He would find Techno. While doing so he would assess the damage. He needed to save his city.

Through the joint illumination of his biolights and the flickering orange flames, he made his way over the rubble. The only sounds came from outside the building and that was his goal. Glancing back, most of the roof had imploded on the lobby. It was a miracle that both he and Logique had survived, but perhaps the others…

He tried his comm again, yet still nothing but the ominous sound of screeching static greeted him. Finally, in what felt like eternity he was able to hobble outside.

He sagged against the wall as his sawing vents caught. He rebooted his optics, but the same images taunted him.

Their bright morning star was gone, replaced by a suffocating wall of swirling orange and purple-black clouds. In the red glare of a firenado that appeared to be dancing over the flaming rubble of buildings, Prowl could see the street littered with blackened remains and piles of molten metal. It took a moment to register that the blackened remains were frames of mechs. He didn’t look closer at the molten metal as he stumbled along the outer wall.

He glanced up at the Enforcer building. It too was a graveyard of molten metal beams and sheets, of concrete twisted and broken down so that barely anything remained. Placing a hand on his abdominal, he surveyed the area. He had heard crying and groans. Where were they now? Did he fail them? Was he too slow?

He grit his denta as he looked down at his burnt legs. He needed to move faster. Running an internal diagnostic, he settled on the ground. Moments later the prognosis came back and his ATS sent the list of critical injuries. Prowl vented. He required medical care for internal injuries, but he was well enough for the time being. He could survive a few more joors.

_For what?_

“Techno. Praxus…Doppio.” Prowl hissed the answers as he drew his leg up, examining the open strut. A quick field patch would do the trick. He wouldn’t be able to transform…but there wasn’t much road left to transform on. Nodding, he pulled the city grid. Logique had pleaded, and he could not in good conscious leave the youngling to his fate. If there was a chance, a small chance, that the mechling had survived the attack, then Prowl was going to find him.

***

Confusion.

It was the first sensation that rocked Bluestreak as his optics flickered online.

Confusion morphed into fear as full awareness returned. He stared round-opticed, but he couldn’t see anything. Where was everyone? Fear clutched at his throat and he struggled, but stopped as pain lanced through him. He screamed. His scream finally broke off as he choked on the dust and ash clogging his vents.

In utter desperation he clutched at his creators through their bond. Silence, like a big empty cavity, greeted him. “Cre…” Where were they? He wanted them. _Needed_ them. Pain racked his frame. His cheeks were wet with tears, and still utter darkness remained.

Through the cloying heat and crackling embers drifted screams and cries for help.

Bluestreak sobbed and screamed as one by one the shrieks fell silent. The crackling intensified and Bluestreak clawed at his suffocating cage. His vocaliser shorted in exhaustion, and he lay, sobbing and hurting and in silence. “Sire….” His vents hiccupped as he came against the ragged edges of their bond. Where were they? He needed them.

The crackling was now a rear as sweltering heat singed his plating. With bleeding fingers he tried to press the metal away from him. “Techno?” He screamed, but silence answered him. “Please, T-Techno!” Where was Techno? Why wasn’t Techno helping him? Even when his creators weren’t there Techno was always there. And Techno had been there. He had been outside. “T-tech…no?” It was getting difficult to pull air through his vents. It was too hot.

The sounds of metal groaning drew his attention and sent his spark into a frenzy. “Techno?” He croaked as his optics flickered. He could _feel_ his plating bubble, _feel_ death encroaching on him. He opened his mouth again and _screamed._

He screamed until his vocaliser shorted.

The dim glow of red, like Unicron’s optics, broke through the darkness and announced the fire’s arrival. He was burning.

High-pitched screeches filled the air and Bluestreak squeezed his optics shut. He clicked, his vocaliser frantically trying to reset as tears streamed down his cheeks. Sobs rocked his small frame. Static spit from his vocaliser as the fire licked up his legs in agonizing trails.

Something molten dripped close to his helm.

A second later, a blast of cool air reached him and two hands reached in, grabbing him under his arms and _yanked._

Bluestreak shrieked as agony raked his frame, his doorwings, his legs. Stars burst across his vision and he slumped against a dark chassis. Strong arms encircled him, a protective field curled over the broken edges cutting into his very spark, but instead of soothing him the mech stumbled and ran. Bluestreak tried to clutch at the chassis, but it was slick with fluid.

He shuttered his optics as screams ripped from his damaged vocaliser.

***

Prowl slid to a stop a short distance from the centre, clutching the shrieking youngling to his chassis. He turned to watch the last of the building implode in a ball of sparks, fire and smoke. He swallowed as he rested his chin against the sparkling’s helm.

There would be no other younglings pulled from the destroyed centre.

He had barely made it in time to save this one from the inferno.

“It’s alright, I have you.” Prowl rocked slowly as he kept murmuring comforting words to the youngling. He ignored his own frame and squeezed his optics shut. He had failed Logique. He had failed Techno. If his sparkmate was still alive, he probably wouldn’t last beyond a few joors. His ATS pinged the probability to less than a joor.

“Let me see if you are alright.” Prowl gently shifted the youngling so that he was cradling him in his arms. Prowl’s lips flattened as he took in the damage – metal burns, open lacerations, dented doorwings. He ran a deeper scan, and despite a cracked arm strut, he was relieved to note no other internal injuries. The youngling’s designation pinged back as ‘Bluestreak’.

Dry hiccups raked the small frame as the youngling tried to bury himself in the nook of Prowl’s neck. He bit back a cringe as the youngling pressed into his open wounds. He upped power to his ATS as he knelt to the ground and removed his first-aid kit. “Bluestreak, my designation is Prowl. I am going to give you some energon and a pain chip.” He rasped as he took a youngling-grade chip from the box. Never before had he been so thankful for carrying his full kit with him as when he inserted the chip into the youngling’s frame and watched the youngster relax. Tentatively he reached out with his enforcer coding to secure the protector-bond. Hopefully the youngling’s creators were still online, if they weren’t, the temporary bond would be enough to hold him together until carers could be assigned.

Prowl glanced at the carnage around them. Despair clawed at him and the nausea returned. His ATS supplied him with the probability of Bluestreak’s creators being alive. He cut that train of thought and fished through his case for a small energon cube. He held a small cube to the youngling’s mouth and watched him drink, first slowly, until he realised it was liquid. As if a switch had been thrown the youngling became desperate for energon.

With dimmed optics Prowl watched. “Easy, there is enough.” he whispered, but wondered for how long he would have enough. He subspaced the empty cube and squeezed his own compressed energon tube into his mouth, hoping to keep it down. With the ATS running on high, he required extra fuel.

“Excuse me, Officer.”

Prowl glanced up at the mech staring blindly at him, his tattered and burned doorwings splayed wide behind him, metal sheets dripping like rags from them. In his burnt, energon smeared arms he clutched the lifeless frame of a decapitated sparkling.

The youngling in his arms shivered and keened, and Prowl pressed a hand over his young optics, even as he struggled to keep his own optics off the lifeless frame.

“Excuse me, Officer.” The mech repeated, his voice monotone.

“How may I…be of assistance?” Prowl groaned as he stood, moving the youngling in his arms so that his helm was safely hidden against his chassis. Bluestreak did not need to see any more horrors.

“I’m looking for my younglings. They attended this centre. Have you seen them?”

Prowl shuttered his optics and ducked his helm. “I have…not.” Was all he managed as he turned back to the raging fire from which he had pulled the youngling, just outside of its deadly grasp.

“Alright. Thank you, I’ll look over there. Come Essence, it’s nearly time for your feeding.” The mech ambled past Prowl, optics unseeing as he stroked the dead sparkling.

Prowl stared at the dancing firenado as it made its way over the grave of the schoolyard. Time had all but disappeared as he watched the smoldering metal heap. Bluestreak keened and pressed into Prowl. Jolted from his daze Prowl shook his helm and turned his back towards the molten building, its heat searing his sensitive plating.

They couldn’t stay here.

He stared over the vast expense littered with debris and firenadoes and smothered in an inky black sky. Here and there structures, skewed and warped, still stood.

Everything looked like a feature straight from the Pit. Perhaps on the other side of the city infrastructure still stood….

In the distance he made out the skeletal remains of the palace building. In front of it a great flat expanse stretched. A flat expanse that used to be the Helix Gardens. Where Doppio should be. He blinked and cut that train of thought. The Gardens, they were a gathering point for families and friends and lovers.

A gathering point in case of emergency.

Prowl blinked as the ATS pinged him an alert. He opened the old scenario file and considered the implications.

He was part of the Praxian Enforcers Corpse and part of PESU. He was third in command of the Enforcers overall and Tactical Commander. As neither Chief nor Captain Raptor has made contact, it was his duty to organise and assist the civilians until help could arrive.

_What help, though?_

He started towards the plain, walking around rubble and keeping optics on the firenadoes. Soon, survivors started following him. No one uttered a word, they simply followed him blindly and silently.

_Plop._

Prowl glanced up at the dark cloud, the small droplets splashing on his helm and face and on his sensitive doorwings.

_Plop. Plop. Plop._

The small droplets became big fat drops until a heavy, black rain pounded the survivors. It burned where it hit their frames and Prowl hunched over Bluestreak to shield him. Some survivors opened their mouths to catch the droplets as the incredible _thirst_ continued. Prowl too, opened his mouth. The drops were acrid, filled with soot and chemicals, but it was cooling to their burned frames and swollen glossas.

They trudged on, past the burnt-out shell of a hospital. Mechs with varying degrees of injuries sat on the melted steps. Prowl stopped. “There is no help for you here.” He said and continued on, the other Praxians falling behind him again in some warped kind of death march. A few of the mechs on the hospital steps stood and fell in line. Others remained as still as statues, as if they had never even heard him.

Prowl glanced down at the mechling in his arms. Optics white with both fear and pain stared straight ahead, memorising everything in silent agony.

***

“Oh Primus….” Smokescreen repeated and pressed his hand over his mouth, optics wide as he watched the cloud mushroom up from above his city. “Cade….” He keened as his face contorted in horror.

“Hail them again.” The black mech growled as he tried to urge a little more speed from their shuttle.

“Only static.” Smokescreen shook his helm as he pressed in the switch for manual communication mode. “I’ve tried various frequencies, I’m not even picking up Praxus’s hub!” He wiped a hand over his face as condensation littered his forehelm.

They were still too far to see the city with the unenhanced optic, so Smokescreen typed the command into the console to zoom the external cameras in. “Thermal cameras are useless, I’m picking up only heat.” _‘Which means fire.’_ was left unsaid.

“Go for normal visual and then invert. See if you can pick anything up.” Barricade tipped the nose of the shuttle forward to begin their reckless decent.

Smokescreen gaped at the screen.

Barricade glanced sharply at him, “Well?” He snarled and flared his armour plates.

“It’s gone.” Smokescreen whispered, every word etched with disbelief as he tapped the screen to zoom in. No distinguishable features populated his grainy screen.

“What do you mean?” Barricade chanced a look at the external cameras. It was simply … flat. Here and there smouldering mounds lay, but no fixtures. “That inverted?! The clouds could be warping the fragging feed.” Barricade hissed. Silence as thick as syrup settled over their small cabin.

Barricade shook his helm. “This couldn’t have been an air raid. There’s no weapon that we know of that can do that.” He eased the shuttle up and banked to the right. Air control should have hailed them by this point.

“No weapon that we know of.” Smokescreen swallowed as he tried reaching Prowl again. Why wasn’t Prowl answering? _Please Primus, please._ He tried the Captain again, the Chief, a random shop. Nothing. He opened his mouth, hesitating. “I…I’m hailing the Autobots.”

“What!?” Barricade slicked his plating. “We’re neutral! If we hail them and _invite_ them into our territory that can be seen as an act of picking sides! We don’t have …”

“Then what would you have me do!?” Smokescreen shouted and slapped the console. “Can you reach any of them? Do you see our city? Pit, Prowl _warned_ us less than two joors ago that they suspect the Cons are up to something! So what would you have me do, Cade?! Nothing? I’m calling them ‘cause no matter what you say, I’d still pick the fragging Bots above the Cons!”

Barricade bared his denta. He cried out in frustration as he slammed the console. He drew a deep vent and looked at the camera again. “Fine!” He grit out “Fine. Hail the Autobots.”.

Smokescreen leaned forward and inserted the emergency frequency. Five-clicks later the line connected.

“This is Iacon Central. We’ve received your emergency beacon. Confirm status.”

“Neutral. Praxus....” Smokescreen’s vocaliser cracked and he reset it. “Praxus has been annihilated.”

There was silence for a split-click on the line when another voice cut in.

“Please repeat that. We don’t understand.”

Smokescreen touched the screen showing the fires. “Praxus has been annihilated. We need assistance. I have no stats on the ground.”

“You mean Praxus was attacked?” The mech on the other side questioned. “Are you requesting Autobot assistance?”

Barricade glanced at Smokescreen. This was it. If they confirm that Praxus was attacked and hailing the Autobots for help, they would be officially aligning themselves with the Autobots in the Decepticons’ opinion. Neither of them had the rank to do it, but they had no idea who on the ground was still alive. Smokescreen flared his doorwings and straightened.

“Affirmative, Praxus was attacked and we are requesting assistance from the Autobots. We don’t have the extent of damage, but…” He tapped at the console until a command came up requesting the uplink ID, “I can uplink our external cameras.”

There was hesitancy at the other end of the comm, then a new voice took over.

“This is Blaster, comm specialist. Alright mech, uplink to 234-897. Confirm when initiated.”

“Confirmed.” Smokescreen balled his fist, hoping that the Autobots might see something else, but at the same time wishing they’d get their afts in gear.

“… _Primus_.”

That one word shattered any illusions of hope that might have remained.

“We’ve sent an urgent request through to Command. We’re gonna need a beacon point to direct us. I’m securing our uplink. Do not disengage. Are you in command?”

“Negative. I am…” he whipped his helm to Barricade. He was the PESU negotiator and profiler. He sometimes acted as a secondary tactician to Prowl, but he was very far from command. Barricade was more suited to it, having been lead on raids before.

He must have looked as shaken as he felt because Barricade took over the comms. “This is Officer Barricade. At present, we are unable to reach Praxus Enforcers Headquarters neither are we able to communicate with mechs on the ground. I am therefore assuming temporary command.”

“Officer Barricade, you’re pretty high up. Can you get lower and confirm damages? We don’t want to risk that your cameras might be glitchin’.”

Barricade stared out the viewport at the dark, swirling, burning cloud that hovered over Praxus.

“Are we going down there?” Smokescreen asked softly, his frame numb.

“Affirmative.” Barricade said as he pushed the nose of their shuttle in a dive, relying completely on his instruments for navigational information. He only hoped the data spikes on his instruments wouldn’t land them in a burning pile of molten metal.

Smokescreen grabbed onto his seat as they dove into the black cloud and all light was instantly lost as the storm enveloped them. Static laced around their shuttle, and eerie orange lights kept flickering in the viewport. Suddenly they broke through cover and Barricade pulled back, levelling their shuttle meters from the ground.

They both sat wordlessly as they stared into the very bowls of the Pit, ignoring the Autobot hailing them.

By Primus. She really was gone.

***

Prowl stared across the scorched plain of what had once been Praxus’s pride and joy, but the Helix Gardens were no more. Little shards of crystals lay scattered across the burning expanse, reflecting a myriad of orange, red and purple shades. They crunched painfully as mechs walked over them and headed towards the Praxi river.

Prowl stopped at the iconic bridge that was the only link the royal palace had to the city of Praxus. The bridge itself was undamaged, although covered in soot and dark splotches where the black rain had stained it. Below him hundreds of injured Praxians crawled into the dark, steaming river and scooped the liquid into their mouths.

Prowl wanted to shout at them not to, but he couldn’t get the words to form. He stared at the husk of what remained of the palace. Flames lapped from the open windows, half-standing walls slowly melted as the inferno spread like a hungry beast.

A mech came stumbling from the palace and Prowl watched him numbly.

Prowl shifted the youngling in his arms so that he had a hand free and grabbed at the mech’s arm.

The armour slid off, parts of his protoframe with it. Prowl jerked his hand back, doorwings trembling. The charred frame turned towards him. Where optics should have been there were only empty cavities with wiring sparking subtly in the back. The mech murmured something then shook his helm and collapsed, chocking before growing deathly still.

Prowl stared down at his hand and absently noted his own metal burns running up his arms. Logically, they should hurt, yet he felt nothing.

He blinked and stepped over the collapsed frame. The youngling in his arms clicked and buried into his chassis.

 _That_ did hurt and Prowl bit back a wince. He dialled up his ATS and the fog seemed to recede from his processor.

He needed to organise these mechs, arrange for triage to be set up. He needed to find functioning mechanism that can confirm the status of Praxus’s hospitals. He would need to divide between the living and the dead, the mildly injured to the severely injured. He raised his doorwings and grunted as the sudden feedback sent spears of pain through his neural net. The sensors, as much as he needed them, were more a liability than an asset and he wished he could cut the feed to them entirely.

But then he’d be blind. Rather pain than blind.

His vents clattered as he assessed the mechs close to him, but all seemed to be in a daze. Those he hailed walked past him as if he didn’t exist. Some would follow the mech in front, only to start following someone else until they collapsed. Still they marched.

Prowl leaned against the bridge’s railing, shoulders sagging as his frame ached. The weight of the little mech in his arms grew heavier and he chanced a look at the youngling. The white optics continued to stare straight ahead. He bowed his helm and let it rest against the youngling’s, crooning his engine gently. “Easy Bluestreak, we will make it. Shutter your optics, little one.”

“Officer Prowl!”

He flung his helm up and straightened as two mechs pushed towards him. Their loud words seemed almost too much in the crackling silence, but relief flooded Prowl as they didn’t appear to be injured much neither did they appear to be locked into this strange daze that had enveloped mechs.

Enforcer decals greeted him and his shoulders sagged. More of his kin.

They stopped a short distance away from him, a grimace tugging at the first, while the other gasped and spun around.

Prowl huffed. He must be looking worse than he thought. He ran the faceplate through his memory banks and relief so powerful it weakened his struts flooded through him.

“Medic Jolt.” Prowl limped towards him and looked at the mech trying to collect himself behind him.

“Sir, I-I am _relieved_ to find you functional.” Jolt hurried forward then paused as he saw the mechling huddling against Prowl’s chassis. He pointed at him, “Is he…”

“Alive. Severely burned and dehydrated.” Prowl nodded.

“Your status, sir?” Jolt stepped forward slower, hands splayed out to broadcast his intent.

Prowl ducked his helm as a powerful scan ran over his frame. Around him mechs still jostled, ambling directionless, but they ignored the two mechs. Jolts companion finally turned round and Prowl got a look at him.

He was a rookie, fresh out of the academy and although not at the main enforcer’s precinct, he was known to Prowl.

“Officer Sideburn,” Prowl began and the rookie glanced up, his doorwings ducking. “Are you injured?”

“No, sir.” He whispered and hunched in more on himself, not daring to look at Prowl. “I was in the basement cleaning gear when….” He trailed off and Prowl let him. It was obvious the young mech was overwhelmed and the probability was high that he felt guilty for not suffering burns like his fellow Praxians, but Prowl was thankful. He let his optics roam over Jolt. There were a few lacerations and dents, but nothing too severe. His yellow optics were darkened by horrors seen, but they were clear and focused. Good.

“We need to set up a triage. See if there are any other mechs,” he glanced at those around them, “that are functional.” He glanced over his shoulder at the burning husk. “We will also need a mech to see if there are any survivors from the palace. We need to know if any of the Grand Nobles survived.”

Jolt took a step towards him, voice low so as not to be overheard. “Sir, you need to take it easy. You have multiple burns and deep lacerations, but you also have internal leaking. I can’t stop that without a surgery table.” He raised a hand, but dropped it.

Prowl nodded. “I am aware.” His diagnostic had confirmed that when he had first woken, but he had deleted the notifications. There was nothing he could do about it. “All the more reason for us to act quickly and decisively.” He shifted the youngling in his arms as Joly indicated at him.

They discussed a few more points as Jolt worked a splint onto Bluestreak’s arm. Sideburn set out to find more mechs to assist, while Jolt set up a medical center in the skeletal remains of a building just off to the side of the bridge. One by one mechs filtered in, some crawling, others being carried. Prowl assisted as best he could, but the youngling in his arms hampered his efforts. He had attempted to put the youngling down before, but the little mechling had panicked, and so he was back in Prowl’s arms, clinging for dear life.

Prowl stood and trudged to the door. He was so tired, and he was out of fuel. He looked at the river, at the mechs lying dead in it. Perhaps just a tiny sip…

He glanced up as two spotlights caught his attention. For a moment it felt like the world spun as trepidation flooded him. Were there ground forces heading towards them? His ATS latched at the thought and spat out possibilities. If genocide was the motivation, then yes. A ground force would make sense.

And they were utterly defenceless.

There was no course of action that amounted in more than 5% survival rate.

And even as those calculations ran the lights came closer. Abruptly the calculations seized as recognition hit.

It was a Praxian Enforcer ship.

Prowl sagged against the blackened doorframe as he watched the ship circle, then choose a landing spot on the opposite side of the bridge. He shuttered his optics briefly. He was so tired. The nausea surged again and he clamped his jaw. He pushed away from doorframe and headed towards the bridge, where he could already see Barricade and Smokescreen running towards him.

“Smokescreen!” Prowl called, hoping his adopted brother would be able to hear him.

By the dip in Smokescreen doorwings and his sudden halt, Prowl knew that Smokescreen recognised him. His brother walked slowly towards him, arms outstretched as if to hug him, but hesitant. “Primus, Prowl!” His vocaliser cracked.

Barricade came to a halt next to him, his armour flared and doorwings arched high above his helm. He eyed him then let his gaze settle on the youngling clutching his chassis.

“We were attacked.” Prowl stated simply as he surveyed their surroundings. The ATS had long since drew together the pieces of the puzzle. The lone air raids, the single white light, the absence of multiple explosions. “They have a new kind of weapon. This was a single event.”

“Sir, can you confirm whether it was Autobot or Decepticon?” Barricade asked as he inched closer, but his optics and doorwings followed the black silhouettes as they aimlessly walked around in long single files.

“Negative, but preliminary evidence points towards the Decepticons.” Prowl coughed and pain lanced though his midsection. He sucked in a vent and the youngling stirred.

Smokescreen finally laid a finger on his shoulder. “Prowl, are you alright? No, don’t answer that obviously you’re not. You need to sit down?” His field pressed against Prowl’s and Prowl picked up the _worry-concern-affection_ , but at the same time Smokescreen couldn’t completely hide the undercurrent of horror.

“I am thirsty.” Prowl said. “And the little one.”

As Smokescreen took out two small cubes, Barricade spoke.

“We’ve requested assistance from the Autobots.” His gaze swept the burning plain and piles of rubble, the mechs doubled over dead and the survivors staring emptily into the inferno. He turned back to Prowl. “They should be here within a few joors.”


	3. It's All Gone

With expert ease Jazz landed his small transporter right next to the Praxian Enforcer shuttle. He flipped a few switches and waited until the engine shut-off routine initiated. Drawing a deep vent, he sent a quick message to Blaster via the Autobot communication drone circling Praxus.

_> Status: confirmed.>_

It didn’t take an experienced optic to know that the damage to both infrastructure and mechanisms were cataclysmic. The whine of the engines subsided and they were met with an eerie silence interspersed by drawnout rumbles. He stared out the plexiglass a few more clicks as he took it all in – the raging fires, the piles of rubble and molten metal, and the blackened forms lining the roads. The shafts of light emitting from Cybertron’s star seemed to be absorbed the closer they came to the ground.

As a senior officer within special operations, he had been assigned to establish the situation on the ground both in terms of casualties and required assistance, but also to determine if this was indeed the weapon that he’d stolen the blueprints for eight quartexes ago.

Popping his neck he turned to the other two occupants of the shuttle, both mirroring grim expressions. “Jack, get your samples. Remedy, you’re with me. Let’s see if these mechs got any kinda base set up.”

Wheeljack nodded and wordlessly exited the shuttle. Jazz stared at his back and the pale, sickly grey light pulsing through his finials. They’d all need a session with Rung after this, especially Wheeljack.

Jazz turned to Remedy, “You alright, mech?” He jumped out of his seat and grabbed a few sachets of coolant, subspacing them. Once they’d located a temporary HQ, they’d bring the rest of the supplies. Now that the stricken city’s status has been confirmed, the other Autobot relief efforts would arrive within a joor.

::Officer Barricade?:: Jazz commed on the frequency the brisk mech had supplied them with. Hopefully the satellite beacon they had left hovering above the dark cloud would be enough to restore some communication forms on the ground as well.

A hiss of static filled his line before it crackled to life. ::Jazz, saw your shuttle inbound. Smokescreen’s en route.” The line cut and Jazz let it. He didn’t hold the mech’s manners against him, not with how things were going. From the bridge’s side a mech came jogging towards him.

“Jazz?” the Praxian slowed and hiked up his doorwings, but they dipped as his gaze fell on Remedy.

“Smokescreen.” Jazz confirmed as he nodded at the mech, but couldn’t keep his optics from roving over the devastation. In all his vorns he’d never seen anything like this. Pit, how were mechs even alive? He cleared his vocaliser and folded his arms over his chassis. “What’s the situation.”

Smokescreen tore his attention away from Remedy and seemed to physically gather himself. “Uh,” he waived in the direction of the bridge. “We’ve got temporary field hospital set up in that building. Although it’s got no doors or windows and it’s pretty bare inside, it’s one of the few remaining structures that is somewhat structurally intact.” As they spoke they headed over the bridge and towards the grey husk.

Jazz nodded, but he couldn’t keep himself from noticing the mechs lying down or seated on the bridge. Some were barely recognisable as burns turned their armour pitch-black with a blue-ish gel that bubble and oozed from between plates, while others were dripping ribbons of protoform that seemed to slide off their struts.

Remedy stopped twice.

Jazz grit his denta and kept walking.

They needed to set up triage and soon.

“How many medics do you have? Functioning hospitals?” Jazz quickened his stride to match Smokescreen’s. They were nearing the building and mechs were littered all around, crying, groaning, others deathly quiet. Brave Praxians, themselves baring the evidence of shrapnel and fire, were hoisting gravely injured mechs onto improvised stretchers before carrying them in.

“No hospitals, no clinics, no stations, nothing. This structure is…it. We have one functioning medic designated Jolt. He was a precinct medic towards the northern suburbs. Thank Primus he escaped with only a few dents and lacerations.” Smokescreen paused and moved aside as two Praxians exited, carrying the broken remains of a mech out. Jazz watched them as they carried the frame to a pile across the street and dumped it. Without a backward glance they returned with the stretcher.

Jazz swallowed, plating pulling close on reflex as he realised the pile was actually a mass grave. He snapped his helm back and met Smokescreen’s dull optics.

“There are many dead.” Was all the mech said before he motioned that they go into the make-shift hospital. “I’m going to take you to our Tactical Commander, Officer Prowl. He’s injured, so if you have someone else that will be able to take over operations that would be appreciated. He is currently the highest-ranking officer alive, and Barricade has given command over to him as long as he is _functional_. We’ve little equipment. Well, practically only that which was on my shuttle.”

The corridors were strewn with pieces of shrapnel and debris, and injured mechs lined the walls or laid down on the energon-covered floor. Less injured Praxians were going from mech to mech, checking them, but with no equipment or medicine, nothing could really be done to ease their pain and suffering.

Smokescreen entered a small room that was mostly cleared of debris. A table sat in the centre and as small mat lay in the corner. Rubble had hastily been shoved to a corner. All in all the room was cramped and reeked of burnt energon.

Tired white optics looked at him from a seared, bruised face. Jazz ran his optics over the mech’s damaged, leaking doorwings, down to his oozing chassis and jolted as he noticed a small youngling clutching the older mech’s neck, his little frame darkened by soot and damages.

Jazz’s spark skipped a beat as he took in the damages, and then slowly he splayed his hands and crooned his engine. The last thing he wanted was to look threatening to an injured creator who had no doubt just been through the Pit.

And then it hit Jazz. This was the first sparkling he had seen.

Prowl watched the Autobot and straightened slowly. His frame throbbed in cadence with his spark, while nausea leered at him at every opportunity. He hoped the relief efforts were fully equipped to handle the situation. As much as he dreaded handing over command, his timer was ticking.

“My designation is Prowl. I am no threat to you.” He croaked in a voice laden with static that came out only half as authoritative as he intended. This was not how he ever imagined aligning sides, but then again how could anyone ever have imagined this level of devastation?

“Jazz.” The Autobot replied as his visor dimmed, but kept his hands splayed and his frame open. “I’ve been sent ahead to assess the situation.” He indicated Bluestreak with a slight nod. “Your mechling ok?” There was genuine concern lighting the visor and Prowl nodded, not sparing the energy to correct him.

“Physically Bluestreak is stable.” Prowl replied and then pointed at the table. “Officer Barricade is at the Palace to see if there are any surviving Grand Nobles. We have no medical facilities, no medical supplies, no working ships, no command infrastructure, no communications, no defences, no fuel supplies. Ensure the Autobots are aware of this.” He turned towards Smokescreen. “Jolt needs assistance. There are simply too many for him to treat. We are losing more than we are saving.”

“They brought a medic.” Smokescreen flapped his hand towards Jazz as the mech nodded, a frown etched into his usually care-free visage.

“ _A_ medic? And medical supplies?” Prowl swallowed as a bought of nausea assaulted him. He leaned against the table and shuttered his optics. Pins and needles cascaded over his frame as numbing coldness swept through him. They needed more that _a_ medic. They needed an army of medics. He dragged air through his grating vents.

“We brought some supplies on our ship, and more’s on the way. Should be here…” Jazz’s visor flashed briefly, “in forty breems. We have ships that will serve as medical bays, and more trained personnel.” He walked towards Prowl, keeping his hands visible and movements slow. “I’ve got a few sachets of coolant with me, can I give you some?”

_Thirst_ came roaring back and Prowl jerked his helm, his need overriding all other thought trains. “Please.”

Jazz almost cringed at the desperation in that one word, and Smokescreen must have picked up on it as well if the wilt of his doorwings were any indication.

The taller mech inched closer. “Maybe we can get your medic to look him and Bluestreak over?” Smokescreen tucked his hands under his arms as he watched Prowl.

“I am functional.” Prowl took the sachets and punctured one. “The weapon has left us with an unquenchable thirst.” He shifted the youngling in his arms until Jazz could make out the scarred, tear-stained face. Wide optics stared straight ahead. At first the youngling didn’t respond, but eventually Prowl succeeded in placing the edge into the youngling’s mouth. Once it registered, the youngling grabbed the coolant and sucked, pitiful whines escaping in desperate attempts to quench the thirst.

Prowl didn’t hesitate to tear the second sachet open and held it to the youngling. Within clicks it was gone and the youngling settled back into the nook of Prowl’s neck, his unseeing optics wide and bright.

Jazz pressed his lips into a thin line and handed Prowl three sachets. “Here, mech. You drink.”

“Thank you. I will take one, there are others who need it more than I.” Prowl downed the sachet, hoping that he would be able to keep from purging. He vented and turned his attention to Autobot Jazz. “We can assist in unloading your ship. Your medic can take…surgery room two…Smokescreen will show you.” Prowl paused as his optics flickered. The pins and needles flared. He swallowed back the nausea. “Do you...have enough medical…equipment to give to…to give Medic Jolt?” He swallowed again and leaned more of his weight against the table.

Jazz nodded. “Sure mech. Remedy will start right away, I’ve got another mech, Wheeljack, who’ll help with unloading. He’s got medical training as a field tech so can assist with triage. You want to sit down or something?”

“No, I am…” Prowl dipped his doorwings then froze as pain cascaded through him. He leaned on the table and pulled the mechling closer to himself. The sudden nausea doubled him over and he barely had time to swing his helm to the side before retching. Black fluid poured from his mouth and he heaved again. After the third dry heave, the pain subsided. He wiped the slime from his mouth and blinked back the darkness. Smokescreen stood next to him, his hand hovering just within easy reach of his scorched shoulder while his other supported Prowl’s back. The youngling whimpered.

“I really, really think you should lie down. Please Prowl.” Smokescreen begged as his field flooded with worry and fear. His doorwings tilted back and he looked at Jazz, silently requesting him for back up.

_This mech’s gonna die._ Jazz clamped down on the thought and withdrew a meshmat from his subspace. This wasn’t the time to pass judgement. Ratchet could that. He walked to the wall and threw the mat open. “Mech’s right. We’ll handle things from here, and we’ll check in. Are your comms working?”

Prowl shook his helm as Smokescreen gently took hold of his arm and guided him towards the mat. “I…am…Functional. I…can assist.” His time was running out, but he wasn’t dead yet. Tired, yes. In pain, horrendously. His arm ached from holding the youngling. Worse still was the thousands of painful pinpricks needling his internals. But he could still perform his duty. There were others who were far more injured and…

“Mech, I think your functional and my functional have two different meanings cause you ain’t functional by a long shot.” Jazz pointed a digit at him before point at the mat. “Get some rest. We’ve got things for now. You’re gonna need your strength.”

Prowl couldn’t quite muster a glare, not with Smokescreen’s field badgering him and the youngling’s whimpers. It was logical…he might even gain some time. He didn’t consider the probability that he might fall into stasis, instead he slowly sank onto the mat. Turning on his side so as not to injure his doorwings any further, he cuddled Bluestreak to him, shushing him and pressing all the calmness he could muster into his field. He needed to find someone to take over the enforcer-bond, but perhaps selfishly, he didn’t want to have the youngling out of his sight. He could not fail this youngster. Not like he failed the others. Not like he failed Logique and Techno. His optics flickered and her rested his helm back.

Jazz knelt next to Prowl and unsubspaced his personal medkit. “One of us’ll check in every fifteen breems.” He rummaged through the kit and pulled out a burn gel as well as a pain chip. This better work as good as Perceptor swore. He handed the chip to Smokescreen and waited until it had been inserted before he started applying the gel to Prowl’s face and on the worst of his burns, being extra gentle with the damaged doorwings. The Praxian just lay there, his vents harsh as he grit his denta against what must have been excruciating. Jazz clamped down on the shock and fury he felt rising in his tanks. He’d seen pretty messed up things, been through the Pit before, but never something like this. Not on these many neutrals. Harnessing centivorns of practice, he smoothed his field and let it settle over Prowl and young Bluestreak. Hopefully the two of them would last until Ratchet got here to work his miracles.

Hopefully.

“I’m gonna put some on your mechling.” Jazz waited just long enough for Prowl to acknowledge him before carefully rubbing some of the gel on Bluestreak’s burns, being careful of his broken arm. The youngling cringed and whined, pushing further into Prowl. Prowl murmured words of encouragement and stroked the back of his neck.

Jazz finished and gently crooned his engine until the soft whines eased, then slowly backed away before standing. “I’ll notify you once our ships arrive. I’d like our CMO to have a look at you.” He motioned Smokescreen to the door. “Let’s go get those supplies and get some coolant to the mechs.” Jazz hesitated briefly at the door, throwing one last glance back at the mech with his youngling.

* * *

Jazz stepped outside the building and glared at the murky sky. Thankfully the heavy smoke and dust that had covered the city like a blanket was beginning to lift and only the smoke from smouldering fires still fed into the dark beast enshrouding the city.

He balled his fists and stared across the plane. He had been in Praxus numerous times before and during the war. There wasn’t a single thing that reminded him of the bustling city. To his left and over the bridge stood the Grand Palace that had been reduced to all but an empty husk, fire and smoke bellowing out of her innards and to his right a vast plane of shattered crystals and mechs where the proud Helix Gardens should have stood. He pulled his armour tight. The chances of any of the Grand Nobles being alive was slim, but maybe a few survived. The chances of any of the ancient crystals surviving was zero. He glanced at the mechs around him. Some were softly keening, others sat staring through empty optics, others yet tried to assist those injured despite their own injuries.

And that was what Jazz needed to do. Help. Be useful. He watched as a few Praxians purged where they lay, the inky black fluid flowing freely from their mouths and olfactories. A wave of nausea swept over Jazz and he swallowed it down. He went to the first mech and knelt.

“Thir…sty…” the mech whispered through swollen, burst lips.

Jazz pulled out a small bag of coolant and held it to the mech’s lips, praying to Primus he’d be able to hold it in.

Primus didn’t seem to be listening in this Pit. The mech had no sooner taken a few sips before he heaved and purged. Jazz gently rolled him onto his side, ignoring how the protoform seemed to slide down. When he withdrew his hands, the armour and protoform slid off the mech’s shoulder revealing burnt patches and fried cabling.

Jazz stared at the mech’s shoulder, then at his hand, and then at the Praxian. The Praxian whispered ‘thirsty’ again before he shuddered and with a final vent he went limp.

Jazz swallowed as he watched the frame grey. “Primus.” He balled his fist and pressed it to his chin.

“Jazz!”

He tilted his helm towards Wheeljack and watched the engineer make his way over.

“Jazz!” Wheeljack’s finials pulsed a sickening grey-white as he stopped next to Jazz, his armour clattering and his blue optics jumped from one victim to the next.

Jazz stood and shook his hand, flexing it. He couldn’t look at the dead frame. “What you got, Jack?” He asked just loud enough to be heard as he motioned them to step away from the victims lined against the make-shift hospital walls. He had no idea if the Praxians could hear him, or if they were even coherent enough to understand, but he didn’t want to take that chance.

“Radiation. Lots of it.” Wheeljack said as he looked around worriedly. He inched closer to Jazz and ducked his helm. “I’ve already let Ratchet know they’d need to be prepared. They’ll also get the decontamination chambers up and running on the ships so they can start treating as soon as they get here. But I don’t know if…” He ducked his chin further and drew a deep vent.

Jazz swore softly and glanced back at the Praxians. Wheeljack, as their Chief Engineer and Weapons Specialist was well-acquainted with radiation and its affects. It wasn’t something Jazz wanted to think about. “Let Ratch decide that. You have anti-rads?” It wasn’t standard procedure to carry anti-radiation chips, but sometimes engineers were required to go into high-radiation areas. Exposure to high levels of radiation could have devastating and sometimes lethal effects on mechs. If anybot had them on him it would probably be Jack.

“I have four on me.” Wheeljack said as he handed Jazz two chips. “I’ve already used mine. One is for Remedy, one for you, and maybe one for their medic Jolt. There are extra on the medical ships, and I’ve requested more from Ratchet. What makes this complicated though is that everyone who remains in this city will need to be moved as soon as possible. Radiation sickness can be bad and levels are…very high.” He ran a hand over his helm and stared at Jazz. “You, uh, haven’t been feeling nauseous or anything like that have you?”

Jazz grimaced. “I have mech, but can’t say if it’s because of radiation or…” He waved a hand at the carnage.

Wheeljack nodded and slipped his battlemask on. “Yeah, it’s pretty…bad. Everything’s bad. I’ve got my preliminary report and samples. I’m going to start helping out. Not much we can do but stabilise them for travel. If they can keep coolant down, that will be good. If they purge it, don’t give them any. Might do more harm than good.”

Jazz nodded as his thoughts slipped back to Prowl and his youngling. Primus he hoped he hadn’t killed them by trying to help. “Thanks, Jacky.” He checked his chronometer. “They should be here in about fifteen to twenty breems. Let’s do what we can.” He didn’t pat Wheeljack on the shoulder as he brushed past and headed towards the make-shift hospital.

It would probably be a long time before he patted anyone on the shoulder again.

He needed to check on Officer Prowl soon. It was nearing thirty breems since the last time he had seen Prowl, and Smokescreen would have done the last check-in. But first he needed to pay a visit to their medic.

He found Jolt in one of the temporary surgery rooms removing shrapnel from a victim. The young Praxian lay deathly still as Jolt removed some metal shards from her doorwing, her colour nanites the only thing marking her as still alive.

Jazz leaned against the wall as he waited for Jolt to finish, eyeing the rows of mechs still in need of surgery. His shoulders hunched. Their ships couldn’t come fast enough.

“You need something, sir?” Jolt placed his instruments on the tray next to him as he wiped his energon-stained hands down on a dirty cloth. He paused and pressed a hand to his mouth, his face paling. It only lasted a few clicks, but Jazz knew the mech was struggling to hold down his energon.

His spark sank. How much radiation poisoning had these mechs received?

He waited until Jolt gained his composure to speak with him in hushed tones. “Whatever hit you had high levels of radiation.” He held out the chip. “We don’t have a lot of chips with us, but we’ve requested them to be sent from Iacon and our medical ships are well-stocked. We’ll prepare radiation decontamination chambers at Iacon, and we should have some mobile ones on the ships as well.”

Jolt eyed the chip but made no move towards it. “I had assumed some radiation poisoning…High levels?” He shifted his focus to the room and his doorwings sagged. “There are so many.” He drew in a deep vent as he turned back to Jazz.

He nodded towards the chip. “Please give that to the commander. As a medic I have some in-built protection. Officer Prowl is currently the highest-ranking mech to make decisions on behalf of Praxus, seeing that we haven’t found a…” he briefly clenched his fists and let his helm tilt back, “a functioning Grand Noble.”

Jazz closed his fist over the chip and nodded. “Alright, I’ll take it to him.” He hesitated, then withdrew a coolant sachet. “Think you can keep this down?”

Jolt’s optics brightened and he bit his lip. “I think so.” He took the sachet and quickly swallowed it’s contents. “Thank you.” Jolt turned and waved to the mechs holding the next victim and returned with them to the surgery table.

It took only a few clicks to reach the small room that served as the temporary command post. Jazz slipped in then stopped and cocked an optic ridge at Prowl. The mech was standing in front of the table with a holographic map of Praxus, while Smokescreen and another unknown mech stood on either side.

The youngling was still clutching at Prowl’s neck, doorwings tucked tight to his back.

“I see you’re functional.” Jazz said before he could get his processor-mouth filter to engage.

Prowl paused briefly and then continued, indicating with his finger on the map. “Sections A and B are priority. As to identification, obtain every Praxian’s serial number and load it into a live database. This database would need to be open for access by Praxians. Set the parameters so that should a serial number already be noted it will not be included again. Also include a search function and notification function.”

“We can assist with tagging.” Jazz spoke up and folded his arms over his chest, feeling both stupid and relieved that the Praxians had ignored his previous comment. “Our ships should be here in under fifteen breems. As we load for transport, our medics can check for serial numbers.”

Prowl nodded then motioned Jazz closer. He pointed to a spot across the bridge but further away from Jazz’s small craft. “It would be safest to land the ships on this side of the river. Sideburn, take who are able with you and clear a spot for landing. You have your emergency lights with you?”

“Yes, sir.” Sideburn glanced at Smokescreen. “I might need more than mine though.”

Smokescreen nodded and unsubspaced his emergency lights, as did Prowl. Once the younger mech had them safely secured in his subspace, he sprinted out of the room.

Smokescreen raised a hand to his audial, indicating a comm. His doorwings flicked up and down, then circular. Prowl nodded and waited. Finally, Smokescreen turned to them. “Seems like they found a Grand Noble. Young. Might be the Fourth Noble. Barricade has requested my help.” His doorwings dropped and flared. “Are you…?”

“I am f…” Prowl flicked his optics at Jazz. “I will be fine here.” He said as he leaned against the table. His doorwings remained static. “Proceed with clearing sections A and B once you are done.”

“Yes, sir.” Smokescreen hesitated, almost as if he wanted to say more, before simply nodding. He stopped at Jazz and leaned close to his audial. “Please see if you can get him to rest.” And with that he left.

The room fell into a strange silence as Prowl’s vents kept rattling in their laborious attempt to draw in clean air. “Did you come to check on me or was there something you required, Autobot Jazz?”

“Just Jazz, and both. We’ve found high levels of radiation in the area.” Jazz stated and held out the chip. “We don’t have enough chips with us, so I gave this one to your medic Jolt, but he requested I give it to you as his systems will cope until we can get more.”

Prowl took the chip and examined it. He glanced down at the youngling still clutching desperately at his neck. “You only have one?” He asked as he took hold of the youngling’s arm.

The youngling squirmed and whimpered as his burned, splinted arm was extended. Prowl softly crooned, but didn’t stop as he gently pried open the small slot on the youngling’s arm. He slid the chip in then hugged the youngling close to him, extending his field in _comfort-sympathy_ as he murmured encouragement _._

Jazz contemplated them, then extended his own chip to Prowl. Wheeljack would probably blow a fuse and Ratchet...he grimaced. Better not think of Ratchet’s reaction just yet. The old medic would understand.

Prowl eyed the chip. “If it is a spare, please give it to Jolt. An experienced medic might have adequate patches introduced to his systems, but Jolt is a junior medic in his first vorn after his internship and does not yet have those upgrades. We need medics more than tacticians. Please inform him of my command to take it.”

Jazz tilted his helm back as he withdrew his arm. He watched the Praxian closely. “Mech, that the only reason you’re refusing it?” He stepped closer, but kept his armour as loose as he dared, and modulated his voice. “You’ve got a youngling, and he might need his creator more than these mechs need a tactician or a medic. You…have a broken bond?”

Prowl’s optics dimmed and he ducked his helm. “I am not the youngling’s creator, neither do I have a broken bond.” He rubbed gently down the mechling’s helm and back, careful of the doorwing nodes. “I found him in the rubble of his school when I went looking for my teammate’s youngling.” He shuttered his optics as the feverish screams of the younglings haunted him. Their screams had died one by one. This one had screamed too. At least he had not succumbed to the flames.

Prowl drew in a deep vent and froze as pain reminded him to keep his movements slow and shallow. He coughed and leaned against the table as warnings littered his HUD. Steeling himself he deleted them and evened out his field. His ATS was running on low power given his energon levels and that he was unable to top those levels. Bluestreak cringed and pressed his audial over Prowl’s spark.

“Were there any others?” Jazz asked as he stared down at the chip in his palm.

“No.” Prowl swallowed down the nausea and wobbled. He had failed them all. He bit down as he controlled his field with an iron fist. Bluestreak wouldn’t feel any of his guilt.

Jazz caught him by his elbow and steadied him. Through a darkened visor Jazz watched him, until he nodded. “Allright, I’ll give this to Jolt. ETA for the ships is ten breems. I want our CMO looking at you first thing. Go lie down, you look like you’re about to keel over.”

And for some reason, Jazz desperately wanted this mech to live.

* * *

The ships arrived exactly eleven breems later. Jazz stood off to the side as the large shuttles descended slowly, their landing arms fully extended making them look like overgrown insecticons.

Jazz had never been more thankful to see those shuttles land than this orn. A light feeling of nausea fluttered in his tanks and he pressed the back of his hand to his mouth. His mods offered some level of protection against radiation poisoning, but he still needed to get an anti-rad with the levels floating around and a good session in a decontamination chamber. He jogged to the first shuttle, its markings indicating it as the lead shuttle and Ratchet’s personal ship.

The ramp had already hit the uneven ground when Jazz got to it. Medics, first responders and soldiers spilled from its innards, already having been updated on what needed to be done. Jazz zoomed in on the imposing chartreuse form of their CMO as he stepped onto the debris-littered plane.

Ratchet spotted Jazz and jogged over, his optics scanning his surroundings. No doubt he was directing his medics out with groups of soldiers. Stray rays from Cybertron’s star had already pierced the dark, metallic cloud, and the scene looked infinitesimally better than it head a mere joor ago, except that with more light, one was able to see the extent of damages done.

“Jazz.” Ratchet greeted, his tone terse and all business.

“Ratch.” He nodded and submitted to the powerful scan Ratchet ran over his frame. “All the mechs following safety protocols?” It was a useless question, Ratchet would personally reformat any mech that didn’t comply, but it was a normal question, and Jazz needed some normal in all this chaos.

Ratchet narrowed his optics at him, but instead of a caustic remark simply nodded. “They have chips. How’s your chip holding, your radiation levels read a little high.”

Jazz licked his dry lips. “Yeah, about that. I might need one.”

Ratchet’s helm snapped to him and he raised an optic ridge. “Jackie said he gave all of you a chip.”

“Gave mine to the only medic left functioning. Figured he’s been exposed longer than me and he’s more useful. And the spare was given to a youngling.” Jazz shrugged a shoulder. “’Sides, I got my mods.”

Ratchet nodded and grabbed Jazz’s arm. Without missing a beat, he slotted in an anti-rad chip. “Keep that in. With current levels we’ll need to replace within four joors.” He drew his shoulders back and folded his arms over his chassis. “Sitrep?”

Jazz indicated Ratchet follow him. “We’ve set up temporary HQ in the building off to the side of the bridge. It’s the most structurally intact building in the area and most mechs seem to be heading for the river. I see Blaster’s already patched you into the grid.” He pinged Ratchet a list which the medic quickly accepted. “That list contains the serial number of mechs tagged and ready for transport. They got the basic of their condition on the tags.”

They crossed the bridge and Ratchet faltered.

Jazz half-turned to Ratchet and stopped. It’s the first time he’d ever seen their battle-hardened CMO hesitate. He drew a deep vent and stepped up to him. “It’s bad, Ratchet.” The river was strewn with greyed-out Praxian frames. Here and there a blackened, burned Praxian stumbled over dead frames trying to reach the precious, but contaminated energon that trickled like a thick, black syrup down the riverbed like a gorged serpent. “Most mechs, they only want to quench their thirst, but give them something and they purge it out. Most die soon after. We can’t insert drips, the protoform simply slips off their struts and the tubes disintegrate.” Jazz fiddled with the chip inserted in his arm. “We’ve lost so many. I’ve never even been on a battlefield that looks this bad, and this ain’t even a battlefield. This was slaughterhouse.”

Ratchet’s hawk optics watched a Praxian survivor for a few breems longer, saw as one of his teams gently headed over to the mech, catching him as he fell, and then he broke his gaze. He drew a deep vent. “Let’s get these mechs to Iacon where we can properly treat them.”

Jazz nodded and they continued. “There’s one mech, Prowl, and his youngling that I’d like you to have a look at first. Mech’s hiding something, so I suspect he’s hurt more than he’s saying. Mechling seems to be fine physically, but in the joor I’ve been here, it’s the only youngling I’ve seen that’s alive.”

“The mech’s bonded?” Ratchet asked as they side-stepped porters. Ratchet hesitated only briefly before noting his medics already busy going from mech to mech. He nodded, coding satisfied that the wounded was being tended to.

“Not bonded and according to him, the youngling isn’t his, but there’s definitely a bond there unless the mechling’s creators are still alive somewhere in this Primus forsaken Pit.” Jazz ducked into the command room, Ratchet short on his heels.

“Prowl?”

Prowl lifted his helm from the mat, optics flickering as he shifted Bluestreak. The youngling wasn’t clawing to him anymore, but had finally fallen into a fitful sleep interspersed by small cries and pitiful whines.

“Don’t get up.” Jazz said as he knelt next to Prowl. He gently ran a finger over Bluestreak’s helm as the little one twitched and he crooned his engine softly.

Prowl squeezed his optics shut as condensation littered his forehelm. Every intake was getting harder, and the tiny needles ravishing his internals doubled down in fury at the slightest movement. Another figure knelt next to him and by instinct his doorwings tried to scan the sparksignature, but the raw sensors shrieked in pain and he sucked back a gasp.

“My designation is Ratchet and I’m a doctor.” The gravelly voice rolled over him and Prowl fell back onto the mat, staring at the blessed decals.

_A medic._

The ships had arrived. Help had arrived. He wasn’t needed anymore. Help had arrived.

“Thank you.” Prowl rasped as he shuttered his optics. It was getting hard to think beyond the hazy fog clogging his processor. He had already placed his ATS in standby, his fuel levels were too low to continue running it, but with the loss of the ATS came the roiling emotions and shock at what had happened.

“Don’t thank me yet.” The voice drifted somewhere above him and he onlined his optics again. A different type of tingling washed over his frame as the medic ran a high-powered scan. His optics drifted closed. He was tired, but help had arrived. A gentle touch to his helm kept him for a moment from sinking down into the beckoning oblivion, but his shutters were too heavy to open. A warm voice filled his audio, but it receded further and further as he drew closer and closer to the silence.

Finally, the beckoning darkness lured him into a pain-free recharge.

“Prowl?” Jazz lowered his helm to the Praxian, his field rippling concern as the mech went limp. “Prowl?”

“He’s alive for now. I’ve requested an evac.” Ratchet stated as he turned his attention to the youngling. With the softest touch Jazz had ever seen from the hardy old medic, he slid a small neck-basal plate to the side and jacked in. A pitiful wail drifted up and the youngling clawed at Prowl before sagging back against the older Praxian.

“His physical injuries are thankfully limited. Some metal burns, especially along his legs, cracked strut in his arm which has been tended to and some nasty dents to his frame and doorwing. I’ve sedated him.” Ratchet disconnected swiftly and withdrew a mesh from his subspace and draped it over the youngling. “Designation’s Bluestreak. There’re two broken bonds, but there seems to be a newly formed third bond that’s holding. Enforcer-class bond I’m assuming Prowl formed with him.” He flicked his gaze at Jazz from under his thick ridges. “Prowl’s injuries are severe. I’m going to push him through a decontamination room, but he needs surgery.”

A rough hand stroked Bluestreak’s helm as Ratchet watched him recharge. “Chances are if Prowl dies, Bluestreak dies with him.”

An evac came into the room just as Ratchet finished and both he and Jazz stood. The two techs knelt next to Prowl and the youngling. The young femme looked at Ratchet. “Sir, is it safe to insert IV fluids?”

Ratchet knelt and took hold of Prowl’s arm, using a thumb to gently feel along the delicate protoform and the tubes beneath. “No degloving.” He withdrew a needle from his subspace and with vorns of skill expertly inserted it. The tech handed him the tube and he connected the two, checked the contents and nodded. “Get them to my ship. Watch that IV, high probability of the tube collapsing. Have Livewire insert an IV for the youngling.”

Jazz watched as they loaded their unconscious patients onto the gurney and headed out. He dropped his gaze to his hand, stared at it for a few clicks before clenching his fist.

“Tell me where you want me, doc.”


	4. From the Ashes

Optimus Prime stared at the  datapad in his hands.  He’d already read the contents, but he needed time to absorb the figures. Finally, he drew a deep rumbling vent and set it down on the boardroom table. The sound echoed through the quiet room. He leaned back and let his optics rove over each of his officers.

The mood was somber.

The  death  tally was high and climbing by the joor.

Seven  orns had passed since the bombing of  Praxus , and they had called off the rescue operation. The last Autobot ship was leaving  Praxus as the Star touched the horizon. Most of the survivors had been brought to Iacon, while some had opted to head into the  Mangenese Mountains where small  Praxian villages had survived the onslaught unscathed. Whether it was to be with their kin or avoid the war, it was anybody’s guess.

Optimus would not begrudge them that choice, but those in Iacon was his responsibility.

“Are the survivors settling in ?” Optimus asked to no one in particular as he steepled his fingers and rested his chin against them.

Ultra Magnus withdrew another datapad, more to keep his fingers busy than needing to check it for information. “As best they can. We’ve assigned The Iacon i Mediclinic as the primary hospital for the survivors, and we were able to reserve accommodation in a hotel opposite.”

Optimus nodded and turned to Ratchet. As much as he had wanted to assist the Praxians on base, it was impractical and only a few mechs under their possessive C hief  M edical  O fficer ’s care was treated in the Autobot Medical Bay. This though hadn’t deterred their  CMO’s interest in the Praxian  patients.  “What are the reports from your colleagues?”

Ratchet leaned forward and dropped a heavy hand on the table. “Treatment is difficult. Many of the survivors are succumbing to radiation poisoning, others to broken bonds. The burns are severe and excruciating. They need more medical supplies, and running this war, we can’t give what we have to the general populace.”

Perceptor shifted in his seat and cleared his vocaliser. “We are synthesizing as much as we possibly can but given the complexity of acquiring the necessary resources, and providing enough for the frontline, I’m afraid we simply don’t have the capacity to supply the Iaconi Mediclinic with their requests. We are…going to lose more because we simply do not have the resources necessary. ”

Optimus ducked his helm and the room dropped into brittle silence. 

“We can’t let them die.” Optimus leaned forward and placed his hands on to the table. “The Iaconi Mediclinic takes priority. Ratchet, Red Alert, and Ultra Magnus, see to it that the logistics are worked out  that we can channel enough resources to them without inhibiting our forces. Don’t divert any resources from the frontlines.”

“The front’s been quiet since Praxus.” Jazz stated as he toyed with a stylus, his usually bright blue visor darkened to near navy. “I have my mechs investigating the lack of activity. I’ve also mobilised more assets to get intel on that fragging weapon they used. According to preliminary field reports, there were no orders given from Decepticon HQ. So it was either a rogue experiment, which I wouldn’t put beyond Shockwave, or there was such a tight lid on this operation that no mech knew about it ‘cept for the top brass.”

Optimus nodded. “It’s good that you’ve prioritised  it. We need  to secure our cities against such a possible attack.”

“I’ve already sent out what we know to our allies and requested the city states to share with the Neutrals. I’ve received the security measures of Autobot-controlled cities and updated them based on the intel received from Smokescreen, Barricade, Jolt and Side Burn.” He dropped his helm and glanced sideways at Ratchet , fiddling with the edges of his datapad . “I would however like to talk with Officer Prowl once he’s awake. All four the mechs interviewed agreed that  Officer  Prowl was not only the third in command of the Enforcers, but also Praxus’ tactical officer. He might have valuable intel that we can utilise , especially as he was also rather close to ground zero. ”

Ratchet’s engine rumbled  ominously and he flared his plating. Prowl was one of the mechs under Ratchet’s direct care, and one of the few still alive within two  kels from the hypocentre. “He is currently in  stasis , and it’s not medically induced. When he wakes, I’m not going to let you interrogate him.”

“We understand, Ratchet, and the last thing we want to do is cause him more distress, but we also need to act swiftly so that this event doesn’t repeat.” Optimus’s steady voice floated through the room and Ratchet sank back into his seat , but his optics narrowed at Red Alert .

Red Alert licked his lips and continued fiddling with the datapad.

Satisfied that Red Alert  wouldn’t stress his patient, Ratchet raised his chin and turned to Optimus. “I understand that, but his situation is volatile. He might have been shock-cocooned from the  initial blast, but that  doesn’t mean he  didn’t receive severe burns to his frame and high doses of radiation. His spark is unstable and need I remind you that if he dies, so does the youngling.”

“We get that, Ratch. When Prowl wakes,  I’ll talk to him and you can watch. Soon as he starts stressing I’ll be out of there. Hopefully he’ll remember me. ” Jazz placed the stylus on the table and turned to Red Alert. “We’ve got witness reports and we’ll work from what we have. We’ll refine once we get the info, but it’s not to say Prowl has anymore info than the others.”

Red Alert nodded. “I just don’t want them to be unprepared. Security for the Autobot bases and cities is my responsibility.” He turned towards Optimus and raised his hands. “I don’t want to see something like this ever again.”

“None of us do.” Ironhide rumbled as he  toyed with the barrel on his cannon. 

“A sentiment shared by all Autobots.” Optimus  stated . “Jazz, when Prowl wakes, you and Ratchet can talk with him if he’s  capable _ and _ he’s  willing. Red Alert, raise the alert level to orange. If there are  spottings of flyers or seekers, they are to raise the domes. Communicate this to our outlying posts as well. ”

“Affirmative, sir.” Red Alert nodded and clicked a few commands on his datapad.

“Ironhide, make preparations. I wish to visit the Iaconi Mediclinic. ” Optimus tapped the table and stood. “ You are all dismissed.”

He dreaded visiting them, seeing them suffer and to know that he had failed them and was still failing them, but at least he would be there for them.

It wasn’t enough, it would never be enough, but it was all he could do.

* * *

Prowl  onlined his optics to a blurry, white world that beeped softly. His frame ached  dully, and he rolled his heavy helm to the side.

A blurry shape came into focus . A frown pulled at his optic ridges as his foggy processor  recognised the shape as that of a youngling – a youngling sleep ing on the berth next to him .

Why? There was…something happened…something bad.

He blinked and stretched his optics, then reached out to touch the young frame. He froze as pain lanced through his arm . He glanced down at his arm covered in medical mesh and slowly  relaxed  the bruised appendage back on to the berth .

What happened? Where was he? Memories teased at the back of his processor, but he couldn’t latch to one as they slipped around in his foggy processor like slimy tendrils. A door wooshed open and his doorwings caught the signature of someone familiar but not someone who had a designation logged in his processor. 

He rolled his helm towards the  newcomer. 

Newcomers.

A chartreuse Iaconi medic greeted him with a stiff, tired smile, his blue optics dark with what could have been exhaustion or worry.

An Iaconi  _ Autobot  _ medic. Why not… Praxian ? Prowl’s spark sped up as the memories failed to connect. Where was he?

A silver  Polyhexian slipped round the medic and smiled warmly at him. The red Autobot  ensign stared unseeingly at him.

“ Heya , Prow l . Welcome back. ”

He shuttered his optics and tried to bring his battle computer online. The fog pushed back. Medical equipment beeped their protests at his rising temperature.

“Easy there, you are safe.” The medic headed to the berth and checked the displays. “Can you hear me?”

Prowl gulped in air as his battle computer finally strung the memories together. He was at an Autobot base because  Praxus was...destroyed. He rolled his helm to look at the youngling. Bluestreak. Numbness spread through him.

“His...creators?” Prowl’s voice was barely audible through the hiss and static.

The silver  Polyhexian stepped towards him, but not before glancing at the medic. “Haven’t found them yet, but...” He trailed off as he leaned his hip against the berth.

The medic tapped a  last few commands to silence the alarms and turned to Prowl. His field oozed with sympathy and comfort particular to medics. It usually meant they had bad news. When he spoke, his voice was  gruff , but gentle. “You might have some memories that are not intact, so we’ll begin with introductions. I am Ratchet, Chief Medical Officer of the  Autobots and this is Jazz,” He hesitated briefly as he ran his optics over Jazz, then turned back to Prowl. “We have evacuated the citizens who  were in need of medical attention and who were willing. You are currently in Iacon at the Autobot Medical Bay.” 

Ratchet let his optics drift to Bluestreak and reached out to gently run his thumb over the youngling’s chevron. There was no response. He heaved a weary sigh and his shoulders dropped as he shook his helm. “Unfortunately, my scan detected broken bonds. You created an enforcer-class bond with him. It is why he is still alive.”

Prowl shuddered as he closed his optics. “I... remember.” The static was getting better, but it took effort to form the words. His processor recalled the shrieking voices of hundreds of younglings as they burned to death. He swallowed. “There were...many casualties.”

“Yes.” Ratchet nodded and slicked his plating back. He withdrew his hand from Bluestreak and unspooled a data cable. “I’ve run a few scans, but if you are up to it, I’d like to uplink and check your logs. You have taken a high dosage of radiation.”

Prowl gave the barest of nods and forced his optics open. He eyed the drip. Were they sedating him? His gaze dropped to the silver  Polyhexian as the medic linked up through his neck port. Memories came back of this mech. He had been there before help had arrived. The first Autobot. “I... remember you.” He whispered as he granted the medic access through his firewalls to view his medical logs.

“Yeah mech, we met.” Jazz couldn’t bring himself to say ‘in Praxus ’. There was nothing left of the burned out, molten  husk except dangerous levels of radiation that would leave the city uninhabitable for vorns to come. Another septorn had passed since they had called-off the last of the search and rescue units. Praxus now lay abandoned in her dark and empty grave, a brutal, physical reminder of how far they had all fallen in this Primus-forsaken war.

Jazz cleared his vocaliser as a small whine brought him back from his musings. He stepped round the berth to stand close to Bluestreak as a small  doorwing twitched. They hadn’t been able to find suitable caretakers. There were currently no  Praxians stable enough to form a bond, and those that were  couldn’t form a connection thanks to Bluestreak’s rejection. They had briefly considered an Iaconi family, but i it was  a general consensus motivated profusely by Rung that they  not place a  Praxian youngling with another frame-type. Being as secluded as  Praxus was, the culture shock might have been too traumatic to handle on top of all the other slag. Bluestreak’s future was as unsure as it had been two  septorns ago, except that Prowl had been showing incremental signs of improvement. After witnessing so many patients showing signs of improvement only to die a few  joors later, Ratchet had warned them all not to be too optimistic.

And for someone like Ratchet to say something like that...yeah. But Jazz was an optimist by spark and  he’d take what he could get. This was the third time Prowl had woken, but the first time he was coherent. Jazz would take that as a victory. 

Jazz was aware of the older  Praxian following him as he gently stroked the youngling’s helm. The nightmare receded enough for the twitches to stop. “Smokescreen and Barricade are fine. As soon as the Doc gives you clearance, I’ll arrange for them to drop by. Smokey’s really looking forward to it.” Which was an understatement. Smokescreen was glitching with worry and was in here every opportunity that Ratchet allowed him, and a few times when Ratchet  hadn’t allowed him. 

Ratchet withdrew his cord and Prowl relaxed back into the soft berth pad. “It’s looking better, but you still need as much rest as possible.  So Smokescreen might have to wait a bit.”

“They...are fine?” A cough raked Prowl’s frame and Ratchet was next to him in a click. The cough subsided and Prowl slumped into the soft  padding . The fog encroached  again and he shuttered his optics. He was hot and sore, and so very tired. He just needed a few breems... His vents  smoothed out as he slipped back into recharge.

“Ratch?” Jazz reached over and laid his hand on Prowl’s chassis, feeling the shallow intake of vents.

Ratchet checked a few more readings and huffed. He pinched his nasal ridge before standing back and motioning Jazz to follow him. “I’ll spend the next few  joors with him. Radiation levels are still high, temperature is spiking, his  energon saturation levels are low, and his spark reading is unstable.”

They exited the room, but Jazz grabbed Ratchet’s arm before he could take more than two steps. Smokescreen and Barricade were waiting out front, and he  didn’t want them making assumptions.  Both of them had been hit hard by Jolt’s sudden death the  previous orn . The young medic had appeared to be fine, even assisting at the Iaconi Mediclinic when he had suddenly developed a cough and fever. He had died a painful death a mere eight  joors later. Sideburn had lost it comp let ely .  Jazz himself felt like slag. He should have heeded Prowl’s words and insisted the medic take the radiation chip. Jazz pursed his lips and rocked back on his heals. “I thought you said Prowl was doing better?” 

Ratchet rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck in a loud  _ pop. _ “He  _ is _ doing better, but he is still unstable and not over the mountains yet. I’m not taking any chances with him.”

“And Bluestreak?” Jazz folded his arms over his chassis. “He was  awfully quiet in there.”

Ratchet nodded. “I checked him earlier and he is lightly sedated because he had a rough dark cycle. The bond is causing complications in that it’s having both a stabilising effect but also fluctuating as Prowl’s spark fluctuates.” He wiped his hand over his face. “I’ve got tags on both of them. Any change and I’m notified.” 

Jazz pressed his lips into a thin line. “Alright. Just...keep me in the loop.” He threw a thumb towards the front of the  medbay . “Let’s go update our resident  Praxians .”

“Jazz,” Ratchet pointed towards Prowl and Bluestreak’s room, but his tone was gentle. “We are still going to lose many of them. Those who survived the  initial bombing all have radiation poisoning of various levels. Some might live  relatively long , normal lives, most won’t. Most won’t survive through the  vorn and the lucky ones might live to reach half our lifespans before succumbing to the consequences of radiation. That’s  best-case scenario without taking the war into account.”

Jazz drew a deep vent and tilted his helm back. He leaned against the wall. “It’s not like you to be this morbid. I don’t want you to rub off on me or something.”

Ratchet rubbed his optics and shook his helm. “I’m stating facts, Jazz. How many have we lost since that  orn due to the fallout? As medics and scientists, we are doing all that we can, but some...” he vented  and looked away from Prowl’s room, “Some might already be too far gone to save.”

“Prowl one of them?” Jazz’s  visor dimmed. There were a few images from that  orn that had seared themselves into his processor – the mech begging for coolant, the  protoform coming off like rags, Prowl, burnt and bruised staring at him from the command table and Bluestreak clutching at his neck – the only youngling to have survived the fall of  Praxus . Of those four memories, only two mechs were still alive. He really wanted them to live.

“We all want them to live.” 

Jazz dropped his helm, suddenly conscious that he had spoken his processor aloud. He really needed to make that appointment with Rung.

“Jazz, I’m not giving up on them, especially not Bluestreak.” Ratchet cocked his helm to the side. “Maybe try convincing Barricade and Smokescreen again to adopt Bluestreak. They are the best candidates.”

“That jet  ain’t flying. They already tried and Bluestreak flat-out rejected it. You know that.” Jazz drew a hand down his neck and tapped his  pede . “ Let’s just focus on Prowl, ok?”

Ratchet stared long and hard at Jazz and Jazz was sure that if he dialled up his audio  receptors he would hear the  cogs turning in Ratchet’s helm. No doubt Ratchet was debating dragging him to Rung’s office. Ratchet knew  he’d been avoiding it. 

Jazz fidgeted with his fingers and looked towards the front . “Come on, Ratch. We need to get going .”

Ratchet grunted and walked past him.

Jazz lingered a few more moments, then jogged towards Ratchet.

* * *

_ Ten  _ _ vorns _ _ later. _

Prowl glanced at the pills in his hand and at the chip lying innocently on the counter. Venting, he threw the pills into his mouth and downed them with coolant, grimacing at the horrible taste. He picked up the anti-rad chip and held it between his fingers.

This was his normal routine for the past ten vorns and would be for the rest of his life, however long it might still be.

Prowl was under no allusions that it  wouldn’t be long. It had been a scant ten  vorns since the  Decepticons had bombed  Praxus , and already his medication was doubled in strength.

He was the only survivor left within the two  kel radius of ground zero. Whether it was by luck, or Ratchet’s dedication, Prowl had no idea, but to be honest it did not feel like luck.

Fifty percent of  Praxus’s citizens were vaporised in less than a click when the bomb detonated just south of the Palace.

Ten percent more had succumbed to their wounds within the three quartexes.

Thirty percent had since then succumbed to radiation sickness.

Prowl would one  orn form part of that statistic, but not yet. He slid the chip into his arm slot and felt the eery coolness that spread through his neural net like a gentle embrace.

He turned to the mirror and touched the disfigured  protoform of his face. Many  Autobots stared at his burn scars. Some of those familiar enough with him had asked why he  hadn’t had them cosmetically removed.

Prowl had two reasons. The first that it was a waste of resources. The second was that it reminded him every  orn of those innocent sparks lost to this senseless war.

“Morning, Prowl.” Bluestreak shuffled out of his room rubbing his optics. He wrapped his arms around Prowl and squeezed.

Prowl returned the hug and smiled softly as he watched Bluestreak slide onto the chair ready for his breakfast of Garbage- Os . Prowl placed it in front of him  and also placed his anti-rad chip and pills. Bluestreak scrunched his olfactory at  them, but didn’t argue. 

The  chime sounded at the front of their unit and Bluestreak jumped up. “I’ll get it!” 

“No, eat your breakfast or you will be late.” Prow sighed as Bluestreak ignored him, already answering the door. 

“Hey Jazz!” Small arms swung around the  Polyhexian’s midsection in a tight hug.

“Hey my favourite little mech! What’s this about late I’m hearing?” Jazz smiled and winked at Prowl as he returned Bluestreak’s hug.

“It is what we all will be if Bluestreak does not finish his breakfast.” Prowl said, but the small smile teasing his lips took any sting from the words. His  doorwings flicked higher in welcome.

A  hearty laugh escaped Jazz. “Nah, mech, we have time, but go eat before we all have to make a mad dash for it.” Jazz gave Bluestreak a small shove and followed.

Bluestreak ran back to the table and hopped on the seat, shoving  spoonfuls of Garbage- Os into his mouth. His  doorwings tucked behind his back.

Jazz neared the table and his smile faltered as he saw the pills next to Bluestreak’s bowl. Pills the youngling and his caretaker needed to take for the rest of their lives to control the effects of radiation poisoning. He looked at Prowl, at the dark circles under his optics and his voice softened. “How you doing?” 

“I am doing well, thank you Jazz.” Prowl’s lips curved into a gentle smile that barely ever made an appearance outside of their  habsuite . His care filled Prowl with warmth as it had since the first few  orns in Iacon, but of late more than just warmth had sufficed Prowl. They stared at each other in comfortable silence that turned just a hint awkward as Prowl raked his processor for something neutral to say.  Thankfully, a small voice came to his rescue.

“I’m done!” Bluestreak held his bowl out for Prowl to see, doorwings hiked high over his helm. 

Dipping his  doorwings in acknowledgement, Prowl took the bowl and headed to the sink to rinse it. “Remember your medication.” Prowl said and ignored the face Bluestreak made. 

Jazz, though, laughed at Bluestreak’s antiques. “Come on, Blue, I’ll get you some  energon to down it with.” Coming up behind Prowl, Jazz reached over his shoulder into a cabinet and withdrew Bluestreak’s special brand of Ratchet-brewed  energon . “ Scuse me, Prowl.” He winked and grinned as Prowl adjusted his  doorwing .

Prowl did not comment on the infringement of his personal space. Jazz had been pushing the boundaries more often of late, and Prowl wondered if Jazz...he cut off the notion with a hint of guilt.

It would be the first mech to take interest since Doppio.

He swallowed as Jazz turned away to give Bluestreak his energon. Doppio had been a stone’s throw away from the hypocentre that day. From visuals Prowl had seen, no structure had remained standing except for the Palace and the small building they had converted into a temporary hospital. The little café didn’t even have a foundation left.

Doppio had been vaporised without her even having been aware of anything wrong. No trace of her remained except the memories he held, and even they were becoming a  far-off illusion of a different life.

Prowl drew a deep vent and rinsed the bowl, placing it neatly in the dry rack. He turned around to find Bluestreak already had his schoolbag in hand and Jazz was watching him through a dimmed  visor . He  slanted his  doorwings back. “You are done?” He forced a smile, knowing that he  wasn’t fooling Jazz.

“Yes, we can go now.” Bluestreak held out his hand, but Prowl noticed the small tremor. 

Frowning lightly, Prowl took Bluestreak’s small hand in his larger one. “Is everything all right, Bluestreak?” He had been fine a few  breems ago. Was the medication affecting him?

Tiny  doorwings wilted and Bluestreak dropped his helm. “I don’t want you to be late.” He whispered in a wobbly voice.

Prowl glanced at Jazz in concern, but the other mech shrugged, his own brow crinkled. Prowl knelt in front of Bluestreak and cupped his cheek. There were certain things that triggered Bluestreak, and even after all the  vorns that Prowl had been his guardian, he still seemed to misstep when he least intended it.

“Bluestreak,” he lifted Bluestreak’s chin and  looked into bright, teary optics. Prowl crooned his engine. “I will not be late. Is that something you are worried about?”

Rung had suggested he ask Bluestreak and allow the youngling to talk. Sometimes Bluestreak would talk, other times he would simply cry or worse remain silent. Prowl needed to respect that.

Tears formed and Prowl pulled him into a gentle hug. “I apologise, sweatspark, if I made you think that. We have time.” He scooped Bluestreak up as he stood, the youngling  nearly too big for him to do so.

Jazz took Bluestreak’s bag, but wisely remained silent. They left the  habsuite and headed to the on-base youngling centre. Halfway there Bluestreak asked to be let down, but he still clung closely to Prowl. Only after they had dropped Bluestreak off and were headed to the command section did Jazz break the silence. “Do you know what that was about?”

Prowl shook his helm briefly. “No, but I am assuming it has something to do with that  orn . His emotions are still volatile.” 

“And yours?” Jazz asked as he ran a finger up Prowl’s arm.

Prowl stared into Jazz’s visor and not for the first time wished he could  look into the mech’s optics. “I have my moments.” He answered truthfully. All the survivors had their moments. Some would rise above  it, others would drown in the  bog of trauma.

Jazz smiled and stepped closer to Prowl. “Join me for lunch?” 

Prowl studied Jazz. It was not the first time he would be joining Jazz for lunch, but this was the first time Jazz had  actually asked him ahead of time and not simply swung by the office. He flared his doorwings. “We do not have ‘lunch’.” 

“We do now.” Jazz shrugged a shoulder and cocked his helm at Prowl. 

Prowl received a meeting request scheduled for the middle of his shift and  wasn’t surprised to see the sender was Jazz. He cocked his optic ridge. “ It appears I have a meeting with our Head of Special Operations.”

“Hmm,” Jazz rubbed his chin. “I’ll get our  energon then. I’ll be sure to include some business, but we are going to sip our  energon together and talk.”

Prowl blinked at him and the corner of his mouth pulled down in a frown that Jazz had come to know as the “I’m disassembling your motives” look. 

Jazz waited patiently while Prowl drew up his verdict, hoping for once Prowl would just accept it at face value and not question his motives too deeply. Not yet anyway, Prowl needed to be ready.

“Did Ratchet request you to take note of my  energon consumption? I am aware he has been dissatisfied with my weight.”

“Oh,” Jazz responded with all the  eloquence he could muster, then grimaced and wiped a hand over his helm. His  grimace morphed into a grin and he leaned into Prowl and replied in a hushed whisper. “He might have mentioned it...but,” He shrugged easily as he leaned back. “I  wanna have lunch with  you’re ...  “ He waived a hand to indicate Prowl, “you.  So two Cons with one shot. Come on.”

Prowl pressed his lips together and locked his  doorwings . Did he want to have lunch with Jazz, unofficially? He shot Jazz a searching, upward glance. There was anticipation in his field. If it  was any other mech Prowl would have dismissed it as the normal reaction most mechs showed towards the survivors – a kind of fear to be close to them. But Jazz was not most mechs. Perhaps Jazz was interested in something more. And perhaps...  perhaps he should not give it too much thought.

Prowl nodded and sent the ‘accept meeting’ to Jazz. “I will see you later.”

Prowl watched the smile bloom across Jazz’s lips and felt his own mirror in return at the excitement Jazz was obviously trying, but failing, to hide. 

“Great. I’ll see you later.” Jazz walked a few steps backward before turning and  swaggering down the hallway towards the Intelligence Division.

Prowl vented and headed to the Prime’s office. He had been offered a position shortly after his release from medical bay. A  strictly data-work position where he  assisted Optimus Prime with reviewing reports focused on the distribution and  logistics of the Autobot army. He had volunteered his services in tactical, but Ratchet, Rung and Red Alert had all denied him the position due to  various reasons . The Prime had assured him that in time, he would be allowed to  assist in greater  capacity , but his health and Bluestreak took priority. 

Of late though, the Prime had been including him in command-level meetings and had been asking his advice on a regular basis with regards to tactical scenarios. Jazz has also been seeking him out to review mission parameters for which he had clearance. Even Red Alert was consulting with him which spoke volumes.

He raised a hand and traced the Autobot brand proudly  embossed on his chassis.

Sadness permeated his being. As a  Praxian he eschewed fighting, yet to save mechs he had to destroy mechs. Were they really any better?

No.

Because this was war, and war meant death of innocents.

The office door slid open upon verifying his spark signature and he stepped into Optimus Prime’s office. His commander stood with his back to the entrance as he watched  Ironhide through reinforced plexiglass drill the new recruits.

Optimus turned his helm and Prowl saw in that moment the same understanding that plagued his own conscious.

In war, there really were no victors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of the hardest fics I'd ever had to research and write. This story was inspired by the commemoration of 6th August. I based the events mainly on the book "To Hell and Back, last train from Hiroshima", which is first-hand accounts of people who survived the two nuclear attacks. What I've written in this fiction isn't nearly what they experienced and my heart goes out to all those affected. My hope truly is that this world will never again see a nuclear attack.
> 
> To all who have read, thank you. <3
> 
> My focus will now return to my other works of fiction here on AO3.


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